Dirt
by Astern
Summary: In the years following the outbreak of the cordyceps epidemic, Joel and Tommy's struggle for survival triggers the slow deterioration of their relationship. Follow them through the years as they flee their hometown, drift through quarantine zones, learn brutality and survival on the open road, and eventually find themselves in a city called Boston.
1. Chapter 1 - The Triage

Chapter 1

_October 1, 2013 – 8:01am_

The screeching static of the radio felt oddly calming. It was something that Tommy had never been able to stand before. He'd have been scrolling through channels by now, looking for something clearer, something with less talking and more music. But now, the squelching voice of the announcer felt like a ragged reminder that the world had not yet ended. Not yet.

_The number of confirmed deaths has passed two hundred. The Governor has called a state of emergency and mobilized the National Guard to evacuate stranded residents and secure areas overrun by the sick._

There was a ripple of responses from the group of people huddled around the old battery-powered radio. Some sounded disbelieving, others afraid. Someone snorted. Tommy had to catch himself from doing the same as disappointment fell. The message was a recording – playing now for the third day in a row.

_Reports of bodies lying in the streets have fueled widespread panic, especially as city centers struggle—_

The recorded report was suddenly drowned out by a scream behind Tommy. Those gathered around the radio looked up and towards a middle-aged woman who sat huddled on the ground, cradling the head of a man who lay very still. Two teenage boys stood beside her, mouths open in stunned silence. Their mother's anguished cries cut through the humdrum of moans and quiet sobbing that formed the background noise of the large triage, but those gathered around the radio quickly looked away with expressions of mixed guilt and pain.

Tommy watched the woman a second longer than the rest, but he too dropped his gaze. He could hear the woman pleading for help – with a nearby doctor, with her sons, with the dead man in her lap. Instinct still gnawed at him, pushed at him to go to the poor woman and comfort her, but it was an instinct that was already dying a swift death. This woman's cries for help would eventually fade to anguished sobs and then soon another wretched person would cry out the same as she had. And others would follow.

_…warn that it may be some time before vaccination tests yield any results. Citizens are urged instead to undertake their own precautions to avoid infection, including avoiding major population centers…_

Tommy felt a mix of anger and desolation roil in the pit of his stomach and he turned away from the group crowded around the radio. The triage unit spread away from him in three directions, a huge series of white canvas tents, portable floodlights, and generators. The grind and whirr of the generators went some way to drowning out the human noise in the place, but the air still thrummed with the sounds of people dying, or wanting to die, or of their loved ones begging them not to. Tommy felt a shiver run down the length of his spine and suppressed the urge to cover his ears.

He weaved around plastic tables stacked with medical bins and stepped out of the path of a pair of orderlies carrying a stretcher covered in a white sheet. People lay on the ground and on cots set up under the open sky. Others leaned against cement barriers and the sides of dusty Honeybuckets. These were the uninjured and uninfected. Many had come with sick or hurt loved ones, but many others simply had nowhere else to go.

Tommy passed them all and entered one of the medical tents. He made his way to the back, where a thin partition separated off four beds set close together. The nearest was occupied by the bulky figure of a man, but thick bandages around his shoulder and torso made him look oddly misshapen.

The lack of color in Joel's face was thrown into sharp relief by his dark hair and beard and by the angry red cuts across his face and the bridge of his nose. Yet when his eyes flicked open at the sound of Tommy's approach, his expression was clear. Haunted, yes, but lucid. He had not been sleeping.

"Well?" he said simply as Tommy drew up a folding metal chair and sat down.

Tommy shook his head. "Same recording. If they're doing anything, they either don't wanna announce it or aren't able to anymore."

Joel closed his eyes again and breathed deep and slow. He lay on his side with his arms crossed, looking like a man determined to shut out the world merely by closing his eyes and clenching his jaw. Tommy glanced down at his hands and swallowed.

"Joel, listen," he said, leaning forward and lowering his voice. "We gotta think about what we're gonna do here." Joel did not reply, nor did he open his eyes. Tommy continued. "This…I mean, more'n more people are comin' in every day. I'm just thinkin' it might be better to clear out to somewhere quieter 'til they get things under control again. Joel?"

Still Joel did not reply. He had been like this since his fever had broken the morning before. Distraught had been Tommy's first thought, but it wasn't even anything so passionate. Disconnected. That was the better word for it. It was as if his brother had checked out and might never return.

Tommy sighed and crossed his arms. He glanced up as several nurses pulled back the partition and wheeled in a woman on a gurney, transferring her to the bed beside Joel's. The woman's breath came in ragged gasps and her eyes were open, wide and sightless as she stared up at the canvas roof above her. It was the same despondency that shown in Joel's eyes.

Outside, someone else cried for help. And once again, no one could give it.

* * *

><p>Joel had cried. Tommy had never heard his brother cry before, but Joel had cried as he rocked back and forth holding Sarah. Eventually, his tears had hushed to stifled gasps and his rocking had stilled to a rhythmic nodding, as if he could not bring himself to stop the perpetual motion. And yet he held Sarah until the first light of a new and horrific world crept over the horizon.<p>

He had not even been able to bury her, though he had tried. When they laid her into a small grave dug with only a knife taken from the dead soldier's belt, Joel had gathered up a handful of dirt. He had stood on the edge, looking down. Loose grit trickled out from between his fingers. It bounced across her bloodied shirt and checkered pajama bottoms. _I…can't. I'm sorry, Tommy, you gotta…I can't._

So Tommy had buried her and Joel's tears had dried up, replaced by emptiness.

* * *

><p><em>October 1, 2013 – 1:37pm<em>

"I'm just sayin'. Whoever got it first wasn't bit themselves. Couldna been, since then they wouldn't be the first one sick. So how'd they get it, huh?"

Tommy awoke with the words halfway engulfed in a dream. He had been dozing on and off, still sat uncomfortably in the folding metal chair. Joel did not appear to have moved, but Tommy could see the bandages on his chest and shoulder rise and fall slowly. Blinking and yawning, Tommy straightened, looking for the source of the words that had wakened him.

"Mr. Wendell, I've told you already, the government has scientists already working to answer that question."

It was a nurse and an elderly man. The man did not appear to be injured, for he was following the middle-aged woman as she checked the clipboards of several of the beds near to Joel's.

"But y'need to know _now_, don't you? You're corallin' off those who've been bit, but what if there's folks in here who've got it and ain't been bit? You just got us all in here like cattle. We could be spreadin' it to each other and not even realize!"

The man's voice was rising and the nurse appeared increasingly uncomfortable. She left off inspecting a clipboard to face the man. Her voice lowered to a gentle soothing tone. "Mr. Wendell, please calm down. The secure zone is safe. The army is conducting full medical examinations of everyone who comes in."

The elderly man's eyes widened and his face scrunched angrily. "Y'don't even know what it is! What are you examining? What're you lookin' for? Someone sick could be sittin' right there!" He gestured angrily towards Tommy as an example, whom he had caught watching the exchange. The nurse paled at the man's increasingly loud hysteria, clearly concerned about the number of worried faces now turning to look their way.

Tommy started to rise, but as he did so the partition was jerked back to reveal two soldiers in full body armor. One of them held up a hand towards the elderly man. "Sir, you need t'calm down. There's no need for all this fuss."

"Don't patronize me, son," the man replied, pointing an accusatory finger. "I ain't stupid. Now I'm askin' the lady a question that you army boys didn't wanna answer. And it's a good question that everyone here oughta be askin'. How'd this whole damn thing start, anyway? Huh? Somebody had it first and they didn't get it by bein' bit, so who's t'say there ain't someone in here right now who ain't been bit, but who's sick anyway?"

"Sir, this ain't the place, all right? People are shook up enough as it is. Why don't you just come on outside with us?" The soldiers positioned themselves on either side of the man.

"No, this is _important!_"

The elderly man shoved at one of the soldiers in a fit of frenzy, but they moved quickly to restrain him. Each soldier took one of his flailing arms and placed a hand on his shoulder, maneuvering him as quickly as they could to exit the crowded tent. They were gone in a matter of seconds, but his hysterical shouting was still audible outside as a nervous silence settled over those still within. The nurse drew a shaky breath and raised her voice so all those within the medical tent could hear.

"Y'all don't worry now. He's just feelin' a little overwhelmed. Everything's fine."

Then she too left.

Tommy sat down again, feeling fairly rattled himself. He leaned forward onto his knees and ran a hand through his hair. Now more than ever, he could feel the weight and strain of the past few days. This place was beginning to feel toxic, like the hopelessness was seeping into his bones.

When he looked up, he saw Joel watching him in silence.

"Hey," Tommy said in surprise, sitting up.

Joel didn't immediately reply, but he looked at Tommy and then out through the pulled back partition to the rest of the medical tent. Finally, he mumbled quietly, "It's a good question."

"What?" Tommy asked, confused.

Joel shifted, grunting as he moved. He looked back at Tommy. "What he said," he answered after a moment, voice rough from disuse.

"Oh," Tommy nodded. "Yeah, I guess so. I'm sure everybody's tryin' to figure out how it started though, the scientists'n all."

Joel shook his head. "No. What he said about how people are gettin' sick. About not bein' bit."

Tommy gave a nod of recognition, but only shrugged after. He wasn't sure what to say, but he also half feared that offering some sort of explanation might cause Joel to stop talking again. This was the most liveliness that Joel had shown since they had arrived at the triage. He had said barely two words together for the past three days.

Joel shifted again, rolling onto his back and rubbing a hand across his eyes as someone began crying outside. "I don't know," he sighed. "Maybe it's somethin' in the food or water. Maybe it's somethin' we're breathin'."

Outside the crying grew louder, but Joel lapsed again into silence. He looked tired. Part of it was the dark shadows under his eyes, but more than that, it was that the skin of his face was slack, like someone too weary to arrange the muscles of his face into any definable expression. Tommy swallowed and leaned forward, eager to keep Joel animated. "So how you feelin'?"

"Fine," he answered abruptly. Yet the tone of his voice reassured Tommy. That quick sort of brush off was terribly reminiscent of the Joel Tommy knew. When his brother turned back to look at him, Tommy noted too how his brows drew together in the way they always did before he sat down to talk business.

"We should go," Joel said quietly. At Tommy's questioning look, he added, "Get outta this place."

To that Tommy nodded, pulling his chair closer to Joel and likewise lowering his voice. "Kinda what I was thinkin'. You that spooked by what that guy said?"

Joel shrugged. "Just…everything. Cause of what he said, cause there'll be others like him. Folks gettin' hysterical." He paused, lowering his voice further and fixing Tommy with a serious look. "And cause eventually someone's gonna ask why they pulled a military-grade slug outta me."

"I explained when we got here," Tommy said, shaking his head. "Told 'em some guy with an assault rifle shot at us, thinkin' we were sick. It's Texas," he added with a snort. "Half the goddamn state's probably got assault rifles."

Joel did not seem reassured. "Maybe. But once things calm down and they start pickin' up the pieces again, someone's gonna start askin' questions. Or someone's gonna find that soldier and wonder who put a bullet in his head."

Tommy felt himself involuntarily suck in a quick breath at Joel's mention of that night. It was only five days ago, but within the safe confines of the triage, Tommy had almost successfully buried the memory. Now the images raced back to him. A gas mask jerking suddenly from the force of a bullet. The smell of gunpowder. Blood strewn across the gravel. All flashed before him in a heartbeat. The memory of Sarah dying left Tommy empty with grief, but those were not the images of that night that most haunted him.

It had happened so quickly and felt so necessary at the time, but what Joel said made sense. As bad as things seemed now, eventually the government would regain some measure of control over this epidemic. And when that happened, there was no guarantee the law would be forgiving of individual actions taken under extraordinary circumstances.

"Okay then," Tommy said. "What do we do?"

"Do you still have my gun?"

Tommy shook his head. "They wouldn't let me into the place with it. Confiscated it at the fence."

Joel made an irritated face and rolled his eyes. With emotions already pricked by memories, Tommy felt his temper abruptly flare at his brother's annoyed expression. "Well what the hell was I supposed to do, Joel? You had a goddamn bullet in you. You were burnin' up with fever. And I'd probably have killed you if I'd tried to take it out."

Joel waved a hand dismissively. "Nevermind. Probably better anyway. They can't tie it back to us now if anyone ever finds that soldier. But Tommy, if we're goin' back out there, we gotta have a gun. Both of us."

"Well what do you want me to do? Steal one?" Tommy asked the question as if it weren't truly an option, but Joel's face was dead serious as he gave a single nod. Tommy sat up in surprise, his brows knitting together.

"If that's what it takes," Joel muttered quietly.

Tommy opened his mouth to reply, but found no words. He made a disbelieving noise and shook his head, his voice sinking to a whisper. "Are you serious?"

"Yes."

"Then are you hearin' yourself? You're talkin' about stealin' from the military."

"Tommy, _listen_," Joel snapped back. He too was whispering, but there was no mistaking the terse older brother tone in his voice. It usually either ignited their arguments or put an end to them before they could begin. "Look around you. Things are gonna be different for awhile. Right now, we gotta look after ourselves."

Tommy sat back, his shoulders slumping as he sank against the metal back of his chair. He shook his head in continuing disbelief. "Fine," he said finally, with resignation. "Fine. I'll find us somethin'."

At least stealing a few guns was less likely to leave him with nightmares.

* * *

><p><em>October 1, 2013 – 7:12pm<em>

The military transport truck was not being watched. It had pulled into a side street just outside the main triage area and unloaded several crates of food that the soldiers were now distributing to a line of people at the center of the triage. Floodlights lit the area, but outside the triage itself, night had fallen.

Tommy cast a final glance back at the soldiers handing out sandwiches and MREs, then ducked out of the glare of the floodlights. He made straight for the truck, glancing around him to make sure he was not seen. In the darkness outside the triage, no one was watching.

The truck was unlocked, though it made more noise than Tommy was comfortable with when he opened the driver-side door. Inside was dark, no helpful dome light to illuminate the cab. Instead, Tommy had to wait for a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the murky interior. He could make out the battered seats and steering column. Crawling into the cab, he began to feel his way around, checking under and on top of the seats, around the gear stick, and even up on the ceiling.

He found what he was looking for under the passenger seat. There were two handguns: a .99 mm pistol that looked military-issue and a .357 revolver that Tommy suspected had been confiscated or found on the street at some point because a chunk of the handle was missing. Both were loaded, but he found no spare ammunition. These would have to do for now.

Tommy climbed down from the cab and shut the door as quietly as he could manage. No one appeared to have noticed him. As for the two guns, he tucked them into an old gym bag that he had found abandoned behind a line of Honeybuckets. Also inside the bag were a few rolls of gauze, alcohol swabs, medical tape, and a small bottle of antibiotics – all that he had been able to quietly pocket in preparation for Joel's medical needs once they left the triage. Their plan was to leave before dawn the next day. Tommy was uncertain if the military was actually letting anyone leave the safe zone, but they did not intend to find out. They would slip away on their own to avoid the risk of prying questions.

As Tommy neared the floodlights again, however, a cry shattered the evening air. No, not even a cry, for it was not a sound of grief. It was one of panic. Someone was screaming.

He could see those waiting in the food line begin to look around in alarm and the soldiers distributing rations were suddenly grabbing guns and running in the direction of one of the medical tents. Joel's tent. His pulse quickening, Tommy began running after them, boots crunching gravel as he reentered the floodlit triage. Joel's tent felt painfully far away and Tommy found himself pushing and shoving his way through the crowd of people assembled at the center of the triage.

"Move! C'mon people, outta my way!" he yelled as he weaved around bewildered onlookers. There were shouts of panic from some as they tried to get farther away from the commotion. Others were running towards the tent in question, either out of curiosity or hoping to help.

The gunshots rang out just as Tommy reached the mouth of the tent. A quick smattering of automatic rifle fire echoed loudly across the triage, bringing screams of terror from those both within and outside the tent. Tommy fought against a sudden wave of people attempting to flee the tent's interior.

"Joel! Joel!" Tommy's cries were lost amidst the screaming crowd, but he moved to the side of the tent, buffeted by people pushing past him.

The crowd parted for a moment and Tommy caught a glimpse of the scene at the center of the makeshift facility. The body of a woman lay face up, bloody gunshot wounds staining her chest and stomach. Half a dozen soldiers surrounded the dead woman, but several others – a doctor and two people who looked like patients – sat trembling on the ground not far from the corpse. Each appeared to be nursing bloody limbs.

The crowd was thinning some and Tommy could make out pieces of what the soldiers were saying.

"—checked for bites? Who examined her?"

"—said she was unresponsive. If she was infected—"

"—you the only ones she got a hold of?"

"Any family? Anyone she came in with?"

"—wasn't bitten, then how'd she turn?"

"Anyone else who's been unresponsive?"

"—cause a fuckin' panic out there—"

"—additional resources to check everyone else—"

They all seemed to be talking over and across each other, simultaneously grilling the witnesses to the incident and barking orders and information into their radios.

Tommy made a beeline for the back of the tent where Joel's bed was. As he did so, he got a better look at the dead woman and realized with a jolt that he recognized her. It was the woman who had been set up in the bed beside Joel's that very morning. Tommy drew a quick breath and looked away, desperate now to find his brother.

The partition at the rear of the large medical tent had been torn back, presumably by the infected woman or her victims as they fled. Tommy's breath caught in his throat as he saw Joel's bed thrown on its side, but a ripple of relief spread through him just a second later as he caught sight of Joel beneath it, struggling to lift the heavy medical bed off of himself with his unbandaged arm.

"Joel!" Tommy sighed gratefully, immediately bending down to pull the bed off of his brother.

"Tommy," Joel grunted with equal relief. "They shot her?"

Tommy nodded as he took Joel's good hand and started to pull his brother to his feet. "You were right, Joel," he explained quickly but quietly. "She was sick. She wasn't bitten, but she had it."

"I know, goddammit," Joel growled in response. He roughly jerked his bandaged shoulder and Tommy saw where the thick swath of gauze and cloth had been messily torn apart, as if savaged by a wild animal.

"Holy shit," Tommy breathed, eyes widening. "Did she get you? Did she actually bite you?"

"No!"

Tommy shook his head, breathing fast. "We gotta go, Joel. We gotta go. They got others corralled out there who got bit. If they don't believe you, they're gonna put you into the quarantine with the rest of 'em and once they start turnin'—"

"I know!" Joel cut off Tommy's unnerved rambling with a sharp whisper. "You got the guns?" Tommy nodded. "Then c'mon."

Joel dropped to the ground again, kneeling on one knee and pulling up the edge of the canvas tent. Tommy reached out and pulled up more of the tent to allow Joel to awkwardly maneuver under the canvas using only his good arm for support. Then Tommy too dropped to his knees and crawled under.

It was dark on the backside of the tent. It had been set up against the side of one of several brick office buildings that surrounded the square where the triage was located. Tommy could hear a mix of screaming and shouting in the direction of the floodlights. A litany of diesel engines punctuated the sounds of the crowd and Tommy guessed the military was bringing in reinforcements to control the sudden wave of panic spreading through the already tense triage. Joel started moving to find a way around the brick building they were fenced in by.

"Joel, wait," Tommy whispered, swinging the old gym bag off his shoulder. He pulled out the pistol and tossed it to his brother, who caught it with his good hand. "It's loaded. Couldn't see how many rounds."

"You got a flashlight?" Joel said tersely. Tommy could hear him checking the safety on the gun.

"No, I didn't expect to leave 'til mornin'."

"Nevermind. It don't matter." Joel did not shove the gun into his belt, but held it out as if ready to use it. He paused and looked back at Tommy. Even in the darkness, Tommy could feel the intensity of his brother's expression. He was stealing himself for a return to the world outside the safety of the military-guarded triage, a world that had now had three more days to fall apart since last they had seen it. "Are you good?"

Tommy took a breath and nodded. "I'm good."

"Alright. Let's go then."

* * *

><p><strong>Hope you enjoyed. :) I anticipate this running in the neighborhood of 10 chapters, but we'll see. Life is pretty busy for me right now, so updates will not be as frequent as I like - please follow the story if you want to be alerted when the next chapter is up. As always, reviews are appreciated!<strong>


	2. Chapter 2 - Campstove Coffee

Chapter 2

_October 2, 2013 – 5:12pm_

"Joel, I don't think anyone's gonna look too closely at one dead soldier."

Joel glanced sidelong at his brother, then nodded softly. "Yeah."

The residential street they stood on was like many they had seen already: abandoned and lonely, with a discomforting mix of the shockingly ordinary and the painfully out of place. Plastic chairs and garden tables sat beneath broken windows. In driveways, cars with doors ajar and luggage spilled angrily out the back were kept company by tidy garbage cans and kids' basketball hoops. And across neatly manicured lawns and white sidewalks, the bodies of the dead lay bloated and stiff.

The street was not strewn with the dead, as some reports had said city streets were, but there were enough scattered bodies to give Tommy a jolt each time he spotted another. Some lay spilling out of cars, others crumpled beneath mailboxes. Many looked to have been torn apart.

Like Joel, Tommy had spent weekends as a kid hunting and visiting their grandparents' farm outside Austin. It was not the gruesome sight of dead things that turned his stomach. It was the time and place. The old world was juxtaposed so freshly against the new and it felt fundamentally, instinctively wrong.

Wrong.

"Jesus, how the hell did this happen?" Joel muttered, not for the first time.

Tommy did not reply.

The triage and safe zone were a day behind them. It had been erected in a town called Leland, notable to Tommy mainly for the big Goodwill that had been built there a few years ago and become his go-to source for old appliances and work shirts. But Leland was small and had quickly turned to rural countryside not long after Tommy and Joel had left the triage. That was fortunate. The sick had been noticeably drawn to the fences and cement barriers that defined the edges of the safe zone, but they had disappeared as soon as Tommy and Joel had begun to leave buildings behind. At least, if they were there, Tommy had not seen them. So far, the sick had left them alone.

"One of these places has t'be empty," Joel said, looking around them. New bandages were wrapped inexpertly around his shoulder, but his voice had the pinched quality of someone deeply weary and too stubborn to admit it.

"Most of 'em, I'd reckon," Tommy replied. "C'mon. One's as good as the next." He started up towards a light brown house whose door stood ajar. An aging station wagon sat locked in the driveway.

"Maybe not that one," Joel muttered tiredly behind him, but whatever misgivings he had were not apparently strong enough to overcome his exhaustion. Tommy seemed not to hear his brother and Joel did not protest again.

Tommy mounted the wooden porch and knocked lightly on the open door. "Hullo? Anyone home?" There was no answer. He pushed against the door, opening it wider, and stepped into a living room with an L-shaped sofa and flower-print curtains. The place had a hint of mustiness, like coming home after an extended vacation.

"I think we're good," he said, looking back at Joel as his brother stepped into the doorway. Yet as Joel's boots scrapped against the entryway floorboards, Tommy heard a scuffling up the stairs to the right of the front door. "Hello?" he called out again, now reaching for the revolver stuffed into his back pocket.

An inhuman screech responded, followed by a thunderous pounding of feet upstairs and the sound of rapid panting, like a dog. Tommy backed away from the stairs and into the living room, eyes growing wide as he pulled the revolver free of his pocket.

"Tommy!" Joel yelled suddenly.

Two figures were bounding down the stairs. Two figures which should have been human, but weren't. They moved in a crouched manner, with fingers and arms curling like an animal's. One was dressed in a woman' sport jacket, the other in slacks and a man's collared shirt.

Joel already had his pistol out and was backing into the living room alongside his brother, but Tommy was shouting at the two creatures as they awkwardly fought each other to maneuver down the stairs at the same time.

"Stop! Wait, stop, we'll shoot! Goddamnit!"

Joel's pistol discharged twice in quick succession, but the bullets only jerked the man's shoulder back twice, stalling him at the bottom of the stairs, but not stopping him. Joel was right-handed, but he was shooting with his uninjured left arm.

"Shoot 'em, goddamnit!" Joel growled urgently between gunshots. He fired twice more and two clouds of red erupted across the man's collared shirt as he tumbled forward and onto his chest. Tommy clenched his teeth as the woman hit the bottom of the stairs. He squeezed the trigger once, then twice. The revolver leapt back in his hand and the woman jerked awkwardly backwards a step before thumping against the wall behind her and sliding to the ground. Blood spray stained the white plaster.

Neither of the sick moved.

Tommy and Joel stood there in silence for a moment, only the smell of gunpowder and their rapid breathing disturbing the still sense of abandonment that quickly filled the empty house again. After a moment and a shaky breath, Tommy lowered his revolver and slowly popped out the cylinder. He could feel the shake in his fingers as he removed the spent cartridges. Three bullets remained.

The movement seemed to bring Joel back into focus. Abruptly, his expression darkened and he shot Tommy a sharp look. "What the hell, Tommy?" he scowled.

"What?" Tommy replied, instantly defensive.

"You can't _hesitate_ like that. They were nearly goddamn on top of us."

"I wasn't gonna shoot 'em 'til I was sure they were sick, Joel."

Joel's eyes narrowed and he frowned angrily. "They were sick, Tommy. Real people don't sound like that."

"Well, I wanted t'be sure. I wanted t'be _sure_, Joel," Tommy said through clenched teeth as he followed his brother. Joel was moving to crouch over the dead man and woman.

Joel shook his head impatiently as he flipped the man over onto his back. "Jesus Christ," he muttered, more to himself than Tommy. He knelt next to the dead man. "Look at his eyes."

The dead man was jowly and graying, probably a middle-aged businessman who had once commuted into Austin during the day and watched the evening news over a glass of wine at night. But now, his face was a ruin. His eyes were shot through with red and tears of blood had welled up and seeped out of the sockets. His pupils were misaligned – his left eye pointed up towards his temple, but his right eye pointed down. Blood had flowed from his nose, trailing down over his lips and chin and spotting his shirt. Pulsing veins stood out across his cheeks and brow like fat purple fingers.

Joel seemed to suppress a shiver and looked back angrily at Tommy. "You sure now?" He scrambled back to his feet, muttering. "Christ. You even suspect, Tommy – you shoot. Cause _that's_ what you get if you're wrong."

Tommy continued brooding over the bodies. His brother left him, moving further into the house to explore, but Tommy stood there in silent frustration, halfway understanding Joel's sentiment and halfway pissed as hell. He did not have long to entertain his irritation, however. Another scream, more distant, suddenly broke the silence.

"What the hell?" Tommy muttered, looking up in renewed alarm. Joel had heard it too and he moved quickly to the windows of the living room, pulling back the flower-print curtains and searching the residential street from which they had just come.

"Shit," Joel murmured under his breath. He spun away from the window and waved impatiently at Tommy. "There's more of 'em on the street. Must've heard the gunshots. We gotta go."

A glance through the living room window and Tommy could see a handful of figures loping down the street in their direction. He cursed under his breath and pushed the front door closed, hurrying to follow Joel down the hallway that lead from the living room to the kitchen. A backdoor with venetian blinds in disarray stood next to the refrigerator. Joel fumbled with the lock for a moment before he managed to open it.

The backyard was mercifully quiet. A long disused barbeque stood beside a picnic table and several folding lawn chairs. An unadorned wooden fence ran alongside the back end of the yard, but nothing separated it from the yards on either side. Pistol still held aloft, Joel turned left and began lightly jogging for the next house over. Now that they were outside again, Tommy could hear the unearthly screams and growls coming from the sick that were now beating at the front door of the house they had just left. He jogged quickly after Joel.

They crossed several yards and passed several houses before the sounds of the sick faded. Joel finally slowed at a yard with overlong grass and a covered back porch that attached to a two-story house with fading red paint. He stood and listened for a moment, and when he heard nothing, he mounted the steps to the back porch. The door was locked, but Joel scooped up a shovel that was leaning against the house's siding and jammed the leaf-shaped head into the side of the door near the handle and lock.

"Tommy, help me," he grunted, weariness sapping what little strength his one good arm still had. Tommy grabbed the shovel's handle as Joel threw his weight against it and together the two brothers pushed. The door groaned, squealed, then snapped, flying open with a spray of wood splinters as the socket housing the deadbolt broke under the leverage of the shovel. They strained for any sounds that might indicate the noise had roused anyone, sick or otherwise, within the house.

Nothing.

Joel blew out an exhausted sigh through his nose, relief plain on his face. "C'mon. Let's clear the place." He sounded nearly breathless, as if the fading adrenaline from the encounter with the two sick people had redoubled the fatigue that had already set in from a day of walking.

The house was small and did not take them long to clear. The front door had been neatly locked and the tops of several bookcases in the living room had bare spots amidst the dust where family photos had likely once stood. A white work truck stood in the driveway. Yet however orderly had been this family's flight, they did not appear to have returned. The two bedrooms upstairs still had tousled sheets and blankets that had likely been thrown off the night that hell had descended.

Tommy cleared the kitchen and dining room downstairs and eventually found Joel in the master bedroom at the top of the stairs. His brother's face looked haggard and gray as he was coming out of the master bathroom.

"All clear," Joel muttered.

"And downstairs," Tommy returned.

Joel nodded slowly. He gave the bedroom a final sweeping look, then abruptly sat down on the bed and swung his legs up, boots and all. He lay back gently, favoring his bandaged arm but nonetheless sinking heavily into the disarrayed sheets and pillows.

"You gonna sleep?" Tommy said. Outside, the sky was glowing orange with the setting sun.

"Gonna try," Joel sighed. He closed his eyes.

Tommy eyed his brother with concern, not moving from the doorway. "You don't wanna eat somethin' first?"

Joel shook his head and kept his eyes closed. "Honest, Tommy, I don't think I could keep anything down."

Tommy nodded. He could feel his own stomach curling in protest at its emptiness, but even so, the combination of fatigue and vague nausea at the memory of the dead businessman did not put him in a mood to eat. "Alright then," he replied. "Well, I'll see what I can find downstairs and bring somethin' up here. Just in case you get hungry in the middle of the night."

He started to turn away to head downstairs, but Joel abruptly opened his eyes and turned his head to look at his brother. "Tommy."

Tommy stopped, looking back with a hand still on the doorjamb.

Joel was quiet for a second. "Thanks," he said finally with a single nod.

Tommy frowned in grave acknowledgement. But after a second, he snorted lightly. "I just gotta shoot quicker next time, right?"

The barest hint of a smirk crept into Joel's cheeks as he closed his eyes again and turned his head away. "And conserve ammo, like I did," he added with heavy irony.

Smiling tiredly, Tommy shook his head and left Joel to sleep.

* * *

><p><em>October 3, 2013 – 10:26am<em>

It was mid-morning by the time Joel came downstairs. He walked slowly and gingerly, wincing whenever he moved the wrong way and keeping a hand on the wall to steady himself. All of yesterday, as they had made their way out of Leland on foot, Tommy had suspected his brother was in far more pain that he was willing to admit. Today confirmed that. Joel looked ten years older than he was.

"Jesus, Joel," Tommy said, looking up from a small breakfast table he was sitting at as Joel shuffled into the kitchen. Tommy rose quickly, but his brother waved him off, crossing the kitchen and sinking into a second chair at the table.

"I'm fine," Joel muttered roughly, cutting off the question on Tommy's lips.

Tommy's eyes narrowed and he bit back a retort. Yet he remained standing, brushing past Joel and moving to the kitchen counter, where a sizeable array of odds and ends had been gathered. Tommy had spent several hours the night previous going through the house, raiding cupboards for pills, first aid supplies, non-perishable food, and other useful gear. Whoever had lived here had kept only a sparse supply of first aid materials – Tommy had found only a single roll of gauze, an ace bandage, and a few sterile pads – but the number of pill bottles was voluminous. Tommy thumped down several bottles of ibuprofen, Tylenol, and Motrin in front of Joel.

"Take your pick, tough guy."

Joel made an annoyed sound under his breath, but did not protest.

"Doubt they'll do much more'n take the edge off," Tommy said, watching as Joel selected the ibuprofen. "I'll go out in a bit and see if any of the other houses have somethin' stronger. Plenty of folks who never throw out their pills after surgery. I had half a bottle of oxycodone sittin' on my shelf for years after I tore up my knee on that admin building job."

It vaguely occurred to Tommy that less than a day ago he had balked at the idea stealing a couple of guns. Yet now, outside the safety of the triage, breaking into abandoned houses felt oddly less objectionable.

Joel grunted lightly in acknowledgement, but abruptly twisted in his chair, sniffing the air. "What's that smell?"

Tommy gave a small smile. "Coffee."

Joel's eyes narrowed. "Like hell it is."

Tommy shrugged nonchalantly with a ghost of a grin. "Well, if you don't want any..."

His brother grimaced in pain as he tried to twist further to look Tommy full in the face. "Goddamn, Tommy. You're shovin' pills in front of me when you got coffee?"

"Coffee won't kill the pain."

"It'll help."

Tommy shook his head with a true grin now as he turned away from Joel to face the kitchen counter. He had found an old camp stove in the garage and a strainer and several gallon jugs of water in the kitchen. Although it wasn't a perfect setup by any means, he had placed a coffee filter and ground coffee into the strainer and poured boiling water through it. A half full pot of the stuff now sat gently steaming beside the camp stove.

Tommy poured two cups.

"Nicely done, little brother," Joel said appreciatively as Tommy set one of the cups in front of him. He immediately lifted it and began drinking.

Tommy smiled. That had felt almost normal. Like Joel had dropped in after work and was ribbing Tommy again for having shit coffee. Like they weren't brewing coffee through a strainer on a camp stove, in a house they had broken into, on a street filled with emptiness and the dead. Like Sarah wasn't gone.

The abruptness of that memory sobered Tommy with a stab of guilt and his smile faded. He had hoped Joel's exhaustion last night would have helped his brother sleep soundly, but in the bedroom beside Joel's, Tommy had woken more than once to the sounds of thrashing and muffled shouts next door. For his own part, Tommy had needed half a glass of the Jim Beam he had found above the refrigerator before sleep had finally taken him.

The two of them sat in silence for a good while – Joel sipping his coffee and Tommy absently cupping his own mug as he sat sideways on his chair, back against the kitchen wall. Neither of them had ever been the chatty sort, but now the silence between them was filled with discomfort, a reminder of the eggshells that Tommy had been walking around his brother since Sarah's death.

Tommy cleared his throat finally. "So, you given any thought to where we might go from here?"

Joel slowly lowered his coffee, eyes sinking to the kitchen table. After a moment, he shook his head and looked up. "No," he murmured. He drew a deep breath and sighed heavily, shaking his head again. "Honest, Tommy, I thought…I dunno. I didn't think it'd be this bad out here. I figured Leland was a disaster waitin' to happen, but I dunno now. At least there were people there. If there's anyone out here, we ain't seen 'em."

Tommy nodded in agreement. "I figured we'd at least see the army or somebody out here tryin' to get things under control."

"Maybe they're tryin' to clear out the cities first."

Tommy started to nod again, but instead shook his head and snorted in vague disbelief. "But where the hell is everyone? How we ever gonna find anyone in all this mess? Mom, dad? Aunt Janey? Meemaw and Grandpa Jim? Hell, I'd even like to know what happened to the likes of Tom Bertie and Ollie Hughes."

Joel's expression noticeably darkened at the mention of various family members and old work buddies. His gaze dropped again, first merely to the table, but slowly it slid to his left hand, to his left wrist, to the watch wrapped around it. With a jolt, Tommy noticed the watch for the first time. He recognized it. Of course. Sarah had been so smug when she had called him with the perfect idea for a birthday gift for her dad and convinced Tommy to drive her down to the local mall. He had even leant her $20 to supplement what she had saved for the watch already. Jesus. She must have given it to Joel the night she had died.

Again memories of that night flooded involuntarily back to Tommy. It was frightening how easy it was to suppress them in the midst of everything that had happened and was still happening. Frightening to think they could share moments of brief levity over coffee when Joel had lost a daughter less than a week ago.

Tommy swallowed and looked up at his brother from under heavy brows. "You know," he offered quietly, careful not to let his voice catch in his throat. "When this is all done, we can go back. Give her…give her a proper burial. Someplace nice. Somewhere she'd like."

Joel was silent a long time. He did not look up at Tommy, but it seemed like all the energy had drained from him, slowly slumping his shoulders and casting a wretched pallor over his face. Subtle muscles twitched around his eyes and mouth. For a second, Tommy wondered if Joel was fighting back tears.

Yet when Joel finally drew a deep breath, his jaw tightened and his lips pressed together. He looked up with a hard expression that raised the hairs on the back of Tommy's neck.

"I don't think it's ever gonna be done, Tommy."

And with that, he stood and shuffled out of the kitchen. His coffee sat forgotten on the table.

* * *

><p><em>October 3, 2013 – 1:05pm<em>

They did not speak the rest of the morning, save for when Tommy had to change Joel's bandages. It was an inexpert job. With only the sparse supplies they had carried from the triage and found in the house, Tommy had placed several sterile pads over the gunshot wound, then ended up wrapping Joel's shoulder in dishtowels and using the ace bandage to hold it all together. It would have to do until they could find something better.

After that though, they had each retired to different areas of the house. Now that it was daylight, Tommy had resumed scavenging the place to look for anything useful, but Joel had lain down on the living room couch in an effort to avoid inflaming his bandaged shoulder. A spy thriller from the house's small collection of books lay open on his chest, but mostly Joel had spent the morning dozing in and out. Tommy had seen him jerk awake more than once.

As the afternoon drew on, however, Tommy fixed them up some tomato soup and baked beans on the camp stove. Joel was eating his on the couch when Tommy entered the doorway that separated the kitchen from the living room.

"Do you hear that?" he said slowly, looking up at the ceiling as if listening to something outside the house. Joel glanced up in surprise, dropping a spoonful of beans back into his bowl. He listened too.

Outside. A low, distant rumbling.

It was getting louder.

"What is that?" Joel muttered, his brow furrowing. A few more seconds and the sound grew clearer. "Chopper?"

_Whumpa whumpa whumpa whumpa._

"Holy _shit_," Tommy said suddenly. He dashed for the front door as Joel scrambled up from the couch. Together, they unlocked the deadbolt and jerked open the door. A quick glance up and down the street confirmed it was still abandoned and they poured out, thumping quickly down the front steps and out into the driveway, eyes strained skywards.

There it was! A helicopter, a Huey painted army green, was flying slowly over the neighborhood, following the direction of the street on which they stood. Tommy ran out into the middle of the street and began waving as the aircraft neared them. Joel joined him, placing a hand over his brow to shield against the glare of the sun.

_WHUMPA WHUMPA WHUMPA WHUMPA._

Tommy looked back at Joel and, as he did so, he noticed movement in front of a house several doors down from the home they had occupied. Three people were creeping warily out a front door – real people, ones who moved without the animalistic crouch of the sick. His eyes widening, Tommy began to look all around them. Doors were opening up and down the road and others were shuffling out onto the street as well, all looking towards the approaching helicopter. Maybe twenty people in all.

A bearded man clutching a hunting rifle was nearest to Tommy and Joel. Trailing him was a woman Tommy assumed to be the man's wife. They both looked at Tommy with wide eyes and open mouths, but after a second, they turned to stare at the helicopter rather than try to shout above the din of its walloping blades.

A loud speaker suddenly crackled to life from the helicopter, loud enough to be heard above the noise of its flight.

_Attention, attention. The military has set up a quarantine zone for survivors in Huntersville. Repeat, the military has set up a quarantine zone for survivors in Huntersville. We are discontinuing rescue missions for stranded residents. All private citizens are urged to make their way to Huntersville. Do not approach the infected. Do not attempt to enter Austin. Repeat, do not attempt to enter Austin._

The man with the beard looked back down at Tommy, confusion written across his face. "Why are they quarantining people who aren't sick?" he shouted above the noise. Tommy shook his head and held up his hands to indicate he knew no more than the man.

_Get back in your homes! Hey, look out!_

Tommy's head swiveled back to look at the helicopter as the voice over the loud speaker suddenly shifted from military formal to panicked alarm. A soldier perched on the edge of the helicopter's open side door was pointing further down the street and Tommy turned to look.

Infected were running into the street, drawn by the noise of the helicopter and loud speaker. Tommy even saw some crashing through a front room window, apparently having previously been trapped within the house. Amid the din of the helicopter's thrashing blades, they had not heard the screams that accompanied the approach of the sick. Now at least half a dozen were sprinting, crazed and ravenous, after various groups of people who had been drawn out of their homes by the sound of the aircraft. Three of them were galloping towards Tommy, Joel, and the couple with the hunting rifle.

Without hesitation this time, Tommy grappled to pull the revolver from his belt. To either side of him, he could see Joel raising his pistol and the bearded man lifting his rifle. Nearly at once, all three men fired. Two of the infected toppled forward immediately and the third followed a second later when the bearded man fired a second time.

In those few moments, the helicopter had already begun to draw away from the street and the noise it generated was fading as it moved into the distance. Eyes wide and nostrils flaring, the man with the rifle began swinging it around in all directions, the stock still couched against his shoulder.

"D'you see any more? Where are they? D'you see any?" he was saying rapidly.

"They're all up the street," Joel replied, pointing further up the road with his pistol. "I suggest we make ourselves scarce."

The man swung round with his rifle to stare down the barrel at Tommy and Joel. Terror was written plain across his face.

"Whoa now!" Joel said suddenly, instinctively bringing his own gun to bear on the man.

"What the hell's wrong with you?" the bearded man demanded, pointing with his rifle at the bandages covering Joel's shoulder.

"Nothin'!"

"That ain't fuckin' nothin'! You been bit?"

Tommy threw up both his hands and stepped between Joel and the man. "Hey now, let's just all calm down—"

"_Were you fuckin' bit?_"

In an instant all four people were shouting at once.

"What the hell are you doin'?"

"Randy, stop it!"

"What's wrong with him?!"

"He ain't bit! He ain't fuckin bit!"

"Tommy, outta the goddamn way!"

Absurdly, only the inhuman screams of the infected restored some measure of sanity to the panicked standoff. They all looked up as more of the sick began racing towards them, attracted by their shouting. Tommy glanced at the rushing infected and back at the bearded man, then shook his head violently.

"Screw it!" He turned and ran towards Joel, grabbing Joel's gun hand as he did so and jerking it downward so that Joel was no longer aiming at the bearded man. "_C'mon_, Joel!"

His brother looked surprised for a moment, then huffed out a breath and nodded hard. "Into the house," he growled, turning with Tommy.

Together they scrambled back up the driveway and past the white work truck parked there, pounding up the front steps and through the front door as fast as Joel could run. Tommy could hear the frenzied panting of the infected behind them and dared not even risk a look back lest it slow him down. They flew into the house, Joel leading and Tommy only inches behind him. Joel spun around, suddenly crying out in pain at the abrupt movement, but he grabbed the front door and slammed it closed. A second later, it jumped and thumped with the weight of bodies being thrown against it.

Joel backed away, staring at the door as Tommy put his back against it and sank to the floor, knees against his chest. Both stared at each other, breathing hard and fast.

Outside, wild fists pounded furiously against the door and fingernails scraped and scratched as the infected fought against the two inches of wood that separated them from their prey.

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks to everyone for reading and especially to those who have taken the time to leave a review! These last two chapters and part of the next one have focused on the early days following the outbreak, but next update, look forward to getting a first glimpse at life after those early days. As before, I'm not able to update as frequently as I would like - so Follow the story if you want to be alerted when the next chapter is up. Thanks, all. :)<strong>


	3. Chapter 3 - Lists

Chapter 3

_October 7, 2013 – 5:15pm_

The army had set up a winding series of chain link fences behind the cement barricades and sandbag walls that marked the edges of the Huntersville Quarantine Zone. Soldiers armed with assault rifles and gas masks patrolled the outer perimeter while lines of refugees crowded into the zigzag pathways defined by the fences. Dozens of feet shuffled in uneven rhythm as each new person was called forward. The air thrummed with a combination of relief and anxiety, the relative sanctuary of the quarantine zone offset by the grim, dark expressions the soldiers wore around them.

Joel and Tommy were waved forward as they came to the front of the line. A soldier gestured towards one of several metal tables that had been set up under a camouflage canopy, where a young private in military fatigues held out a hand as they approached.

"Any identification?" he said without ceremony.

"Just me," Tommy replied, pulling his billfold from his back pocket. He flipped it open and drew out a discolored driver's license. The private took it and set it on the desk in front of him. He immediately began scribbling down information into a plain, lined notebook.

After a second, he looked up again and handed back the license as he pointed at Joel. "You related?"

"Brothers," Tommy nodded.

"Name?"

"Joel."

The soldier looked down again, scribbling across a new line. "Joel and Thomas Miller, brothers," he muttered, loud enough for them to hear and correct any inaccuracies. "Hometown: Perkins, Texas. Thomas," he continued, pointing at Tommy as he read. "Date of birth: January 5, 1988. Height: 5'11". Weight: 205 pounds. Eye color: brown." Finished, he looked up at Joel expectantly.

Joel cleared his throat. "6'2", 220, brown," he said stiffly.

The soldier jotted down the information. "Birthday?"

"September 26, 1984."

The scribbling stopped for a moment and the soldier looked up with raised brows, the first real hint of emotion he had yet displayed. He regarded Joel for a moment, then snorted softly. "Happy birthday to you," he said with heavy irony. Joel did not reply.

The soldier stared at Joel a second longer, then pointed at the bandage over Joel's shoulder. "What happened there?"

"Gunshot," Joel muttered. "Some crazy idiot with a rifle."

"Yeah, we've had a few of them. Somebody stitched you up?"

"We were at a triage in Leland for a few days," Tommy offered.

That caused the soldier's eyes to widen abruptly. He looked between Tommy and Joel as if expecting some further explanation, and when none was forthcoming, he leaned forward. "When? When were you there?"

Tommy felt the pit of his stomach grow cold with apprehension. "About six days ago?" he said quietly, tone prompting the soldier to explain.

"Oh damn," the young man said with a heavy shake of his head. "You got out before everything then. Shit hit the fan. Few days ago they called to say there were infected in the triage. Ain't heard nothin' since then."

Tommy glanced sideways at Joel, but his brother's face was dark, eyes cast down as if unsurprised. "They say how infected got in?" Tommy asked, turning back to the private.

The young soldier nodded. "Spores," he replied. He continued as Tommy's expression turned quizzical. "It's a fungus, they think. Puts out spores, like mushrooms. You breathe 'em in, you get infected, just the same as if you'd been bitten. Leland was lettin' in folks without bites, but they started turnin' anyways." He sat back, shaking his head and rubbing at his tired eyes. "We had some of that a few days ago, but nothin' we couldn't handle. We ain't takin' any chances now, though. You'll get a medical exam, then go into a quarantine area for a few days before we let you into the main zone."

The private began rustling papers as if finished interviewing them, but Joel shifted suddenly, clearing his throat. "We been off the grid for a while," he said quietly, his tone losing some of its edge. "They sayin' how many folks've got this thing?"

The soldier looked up, lips parting as he slowly shook his head. He made a small disbelieving sound. "Millions, man. Millions."

With that ominous comment hanging in the anxious air, they were waved forward to an uncertain future.

* * *

><p><em>November 23, 2013 – 10:24am<em>

The crowd rocked back and forth as people jockeyed for better positions, pressing forward into the mash of bodies, slowly forcing their way towards the front. On one side of the crowd stood a squat white building with a garish blue plastic sign that read _Astro Mart_. Bordering one side of the abandoned supermarket's parking lot was a long brick wall papered with dozens of posters and signs. It was towards this that the crowd was making its slow push. Word had gone out early that morning.

There was a new list from the Austin Quarantine Zone.

The Austin list stood out from the others, by far the longest of the many papers that covered the brick wall. There were lists for other quarantine zones as well, posters with the names of people who had been identified as present within those zones, but none were as long as Austin's. A frenzy of excitement had accompanied the announcement of a new list from the capitol as distraught relatives had rushed to see if this most recent list contained record of the loved ones whose fates were unknown. It was a welcome relief from the clinging dread that had settled over the Huntersville zone since the announcement three days previous that a quarantine zone in a nearby town called Jarrett had been overrun by infected.

Tommy had spent three hours slowly pressing forward with the rest of the crowd, waiting for his turn to check the list. He was close enough now to see the rows of dirty paper, each page smudged by hundreds of fingers running down the list of names. To prevent a crush of desperate refugees, soldiers were only allowing small groups of people to push right up against the posted lists. As several hollow-eyed people drifted away from the wall with hopeless expressions clouding their faces once again, a soldier gestured Tommy and three others forward.

His pulse quickening, Tommy approached the wall, choosing one of a dozen posted pages to begin scanning. Now it was his grubby fingers that smudged the sheets, carefully touching each name as he searched for any that were familiar. Empty hope began to squirm in the pit of his stomach.

No names jumped out at Tommy until he had begun scanning the third page of names. _Tony Haberly_. Tommy's finger paused and he made a face. Well, that figured. That bastard had crossed more than one picket line to work for less than Tommy's own union men. Anything to survive then, anything to survive now.

Tommy shook his head and silently berated himself. What did it matter anyhow? That life felt like a dream now. It was hard to remember why picket lines had once seemed so important. He resumed running his finger down the list of names. Several sheets later, Tommy again paused on a name and this one involuntarily caused his breathing to quicken and a small smile to jump across his face.

_Bonnie Hopps._

An image of the petite waitress leapt to mind, her mousy brown hair pulled back messily as she hopped across the checkered floor of a snug little diner in Perkins that Joel and Tommy had frequented for dinner after work or on the weekends with Sarah. Bonnie was a sweet gal. She had frequently teased both brothers that one day she would convince one of them to take her out to a proper restaurant. Tommy suspected Joel had more than once been tempted to take her up on the dare. It was nice to know someone who deserved it had somehow survived and made it to Austin.

It took Tommy another 10 minutes to get through the remainder of the lists. There were hundreds of names, hundreds of people who had been confirmed safe inside the Austin QZ. But in the end, only those two were familiar to Tommy. Still, that was better than most could hope for. How many thousands of names would remain black holes, never appearing on any list? How many millions?

Tommy took a deep breath and pushed the thought from his mind. He turned away from the wall and nodded at a nearby soldier, indicating he was finished. Others rushed forward almost immediately, jostling Tommy quickly away from the wall.

He found Joel waiting for him at the far edge of the crowd that had gathered in the parking lot. Joel had not joined the crowd, however. He stood leaning against an abandoned shopping cart holder, idling fiddling with the buckle on an old backpack.

"Joel," Tommy said as he approached.

His brother looked up, brows lifting expectantly. His expression was guarded, but his tone was hopeful. "Anyone?"

Tommy nodded once and Joel straightened, putting aside the backpack he had been fingering.

"No family," Tommy said quickly. Joel's shoulders dropped with the same sense of resignation and hopelessness that had crept back over Tommy as he had read the lists without finding mention of even a single relative. "But two others. Tony Haberly's alive. Kinda figures, I guess."

Joel's expression darkened and he frowned at the ground. Tony Haberly had once been the source of one of Tommy and Joel's most explosive arguments, when Joel had threatened to cross one of Tommy's damned picket lines with Tony if it meant being able to afford a new soccer jersey and cleats for Sarah. Joel had stormed out of Tommy's house in a cloud of rage. In the end, Joel had not crossed the line, but that hadn't prevented the two brothers from refusing to speak to each other for a month.

Tommy again felt that hollow sense of irrelevance, astounded at how much that had all seemed to matter once. He continued, brightening a little. "But you know who else is in Austin? Bonnie. Bonnie Hopps, from Fran's."

A smile crept into Joel's expression as he looked up, now likewise vaguely brightening. The memory of Fran's Place, with its awful green leather booths and 21 flavors of pie, was enough to lift even Joel's abiding dark mood. "That right?" he said softly, smiling to himself now as he shook his head. "Good for her. That's...that's real good for her."

He continued smiling a moment longer, but slowly the brief elation faded from his demeanor. The familiar air of brooding indifference crept back into the set of his jaw and the slouch of his shoulders. He sighed, lifting his pack over one arm. "C'mon." He turned away from the milling crowd, heading in a direction that would take them away from the center of the Huntersville QZ.

Huntersville had been a large town, characterized mostly by the sprawl of wide streets and open spaces punctuated by stand-alone businesses. But at the town's center was a roughly half-mile square cluster of old brick buildings and gentile row houses with white-washed faces, most of which had long ago been converted into small business spaces. It was around this more defensible cluster of buildings that the perimeters of the QZ had been erected, comprised mostly of cement barriers, sandbags, and a hodgepodge of wood and cinder blocks. The Astro Mart, once an old bottling facility, had become of an unofficial gathering place for the hundreds of refugees sheltering in Huntersville.

"You're gonna have to pick up your own ration cards from now on," Joel said as a change of subject once they were moving away from the Astro Mart and in the direction of a row of old businesses that had been converted into communal housing.

"Why?" Tommy asked, looking sidelong at his brother.

"They won't give 'em out to friends or family no more. Said they been gettin' folks tryin' to take cards that don't belong to 'em."

Tommy frowned. "They've seen us together enough to know who we are though."

"It don't matter," Joel shrugged. "Said no exceptions. And bring your paperwork with you too. No QZC, no ration cards."

"Jesus, place is turnin' into a goddamn military camp," Tommy said, glaring at the ground and fingering the Quarantine Zone Card in his pocket, with his personal information scrawled across it by hand. As usual, however, Joel only shrugged again.

"Just don't make trouble about it."

They had left the supermarket parking lot behind, but throngs of people continued to gather in idle groups in doorways and on the front stoops of the buildings they passed. A sense of vacancy lingered everywhere, from the emptiness of an abandoned attorney's office and engraver's shop, to the blank expressions of the teenagers playing cards on an old cardboard box outside the town's deserted post office. Again that creeping dread gnawed at the edge of Tommy's mind, to see the ordinary everyday thrown into stark relief by the hollow faces and idle aimlessness of hundreds of refugees. Never had Tommy felt so alone in a place so crowded.

"Stop it," Tommy heard Joel mutter to his side. He glanced sideways in question.

"What?"

"Let it go, Tommy," Joel grumbled without looking at his brother. His tone was not sympathetic. "Stop lookin' around the place like that. You keep thinkin' about how it all used t'be, you're just gonna get yourself killed."

Tommy made an annoyed face, pressing his lips together to bite back a testy retort. He settled for snarky instead. "That your idea of a pep talk?"

"Guess so."

"Really rousing, thanks."

Joel stopped in the middle of the street and turned to Tommy with a scowl. That's how it was with Joel these days. He had always had a temper when pushed too far, but it seemed to simmer just beneath the surface all the time now, stoked by even the mildest irritation. Joel's dark brows drew together and he thumped a fist against Tommy's chest. "Grow up, Tommy. You wanna pep talk? Stay alive. Get your head back on and stay alive."

"Nice, Joel. Real nice. That's real helpful."

Joel shook his head and glared like he was talking to a child. "Then change the world, Tommy. Go on. Lemme know how it goes." He reached into his backpack and pulled out a sheaf of papers, which he shoved into Tommy's chest. Tommy reached up and caught them before Joel turned and started walking away again. Tommy glanced down at the papers in confusion. They bore the official army stamp that authenticated every QZC and any other piece of military paperwork that existed in Huntersville.

"Hey, what's this?" Tommy said, jogging after Joel, his temper deflated by his curiosity.

"That's makin' us useful," Joel replied tersely, not looking at Tommy. "I got us places on a barricade team."

Tommy glanced down at the paperwork again, quickly scanning it. "What, guardin' them?"

"Repairs. Buildin' them up. Maybe puttin' up new ones if the army clears out new areas."

Tommy did not immediately reply, but he continued trailing after Joel as he flipped through the papers. They included details about what their new Barricade Maintenance Assignment would entail and instructed them to meet at the Astro Mart the following morning. Part of Tommy was grateful for the opportunity to be doing something other than aimlessly sitting around, but working near the barricades was not without its risks. The infected still roamed the streets outside the QZ. They traveled in packs, moving with such inhuman speed that some folks had taken to calling them Racers or Runners. With disturbing frequency, these packs would stumble across the QZ and hurl themselves against the barricades, broken fingernails flailing against the walls of wood and stone. The sound of bombs and explosions outside the zone were common as the military attempted to draw the infected away from the barricades by distracting them with noise farther afield.

"Okay," Tommy said slowly, still following Joel. "Your shoulder gonna be okay with that?"

Joel waved a hand dismissively. The bandages had long since come off, but he still moved his shoulder with a certain gingerness, as if the muscles had not yet fully recovered. "It's fine. And it don't matter anyway. Don't tell anyone about it."

Tommy frowned and his brow wrinkled in question. "Why not?"

"Think, Tommy," Joel replied, tapping his temple and giving Tommy a belittling Big Brother look. "We can be the guy with the bum shoulder and the guy who mopes about the way things used t'be, or we can be the two brothers who the bosses round here count on to get things done. Which ones you think'll keep gettin' their rations if things ever go real bad?"

"Jesus, Joel," Tommy snorted, clearly taken aback. "You start talkin' like that, we've already lost. Only way we beat this thing is workin' together."

His brother almost grimaced, as if embarrassed to hear Tommy talking so optimistically. Joel shook his head and his voice lowered to a derisive mutter. "This ain't some union, Tommy. Ain't anybody here's gonna stick together when push comes to shove."

Tommy came to a slow halt with a disturbed expression, eyeing his brother. But Joel just turned away and continued walking. Tommy did not follow him.

* * *

><p><em>November 23, 2013 – 8:20pm<em>

"_Bonnie. Saw your name on the Austin list. Hope your OK. Joel and me made it out of Perkins, we're in Huntersvile. We been here about 2 months. Joel got shot once, but he's OK now. We're joining a baricade crew tomorow cause we're tired of sitting around. How's everything in Austin? Hear about anyone else from Frans or Perkins? Sure hope your OK. Good to see a familier name on the lists finally. Tell us how your doing. Joel and Tommy Miller."_

Tommy looked up, cocking an eyebrow towards the army cot on which Joel reclined. The pale white light of the battery-powered lantern threw awkward shadows across Joel's face, but his eyes gleamed as he turned to look at Tommy, nodding.

"S'good," Joel said, his voice thick. He lay with an arm drawn up under his head, absently staring up at the ceiling as Tommy had been writing. Around them, the former café teemed with people similarly set up on cots in disorderly rows. The evening had brought relative quiet, but half a dozen lanterns still lit the place. The café was situated right on the edge of the Huntersville QZ and Tommy and Joel had been assigned cots on the second floor. Through the quaintly paneled windows, they could see the glow of the barricade lights below.

"You wanna add anything?" Tommy said, tapping the tip of his pencil against the back of the receipt slip on which he had written the note.

His brother shook his head, turning back to look up at the ceiling. "No, that's...that's good. Tell her to look after herself."

Tommy bent over the paper, balancing the receipt book on his knee and scrawling _Take care of yourself_ under their names. He read the note through again and paused. He glanced up at Joel for a second, then hunched back over. _PS. Sarah didn't make it. Hope you didn't lose anyone._

"When're they takin' these to Austin?" Joel asked quietly.

"Whenever the military goes next," Tommy answered, folding up the note and taping it shut with the roll of dispenser-less Scotch tape they had found at the abandoned post office a few days previous. "They're takin' letters to some of the other zones too, or to Austin, so Austin can take 'em to other zones. That's what a couple of the soldiers at the Astro were sayin'. Austin's got a whole shitload of military stuff. They're tryin' to get some of it out to the smaller zones, to build 'em up. Don't want another Jarrett."

"Or Leland."

Tommy nodded. He bent over the folded receipt slip and wrote, as clearly as possible: _AUSTIN. To Bonnie Hopps, formelly of Frans Place, Perkins. From Joel and Tommy Miller, Huntersvile._

"She'll probably be glad to hear from someone from home," Tommy said, a ghost of a grin slipping across his face as he reread the note in anticipation of what Bonnie might feel when she got it. Joel snorted, but Tommy noticed a small smile tugging at the corner of his brother's mouth as well.

"Yeah," Joel chuckled, as if suddenly recalling some funny moment at Fran's. "I bet she's just been dyin' to hear from her two most demandin' customers."

Tommy grinned, happy to see Joel joking. "Aw c'mon. Y'never know," he said with mock seriousness. "She could be desperate enough even for the likes of you and me. She might just be on her own, like us."

He wished he hadn't said it almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth. They had come naturally, the sort of sarcastic jibe that he'd easily have made before all of this. But desperateness was no longer hyperbole. It was not difficult to imagine that the line cooks and other waitresses with which perky, affable Bonnie had once bantered might even now be clawing at the barricades of a quarantine zone, if not already dead. It was abruptly sobering. Joel's smile faded and he lapsed in brooding silence once more, still staring absently at the ceiling. Sighing, Tommy tucked the note into his coat pocket and did not try to lift Joel's spirits again.

He leaned over to begin unlacing his boots, but a sudden sharp movement to his right caught his attention.

"Hey where'd you get that?"

The harsh voice of a middle-aged man Tommy had heard called Gary cut through the tired conversations of the twenty-some people who had been assigned cots on the café's second floor. Gary was lean and gray, with ropes of muscle standing out along his long, thin arms. He stood over the cot of a younger, red-haired man named Daniel whom Tommy had spoken with only a handful of times over the past few months. Daniel lay on his stomach and looked to have been idly flipping through an old hunting magazine. Right now though, he was staring up at Gary with a wary expression, lips parted in silent question.

In his peripheral vision, Tommy saw Joel lift his head and look in Gary's direction. Others were doing the same.

"What?" Tommy heard Daniel ask quietly.

"That," Gary said angrily. He reached down suddenly and snatched the magazine out of Daniel's hands. "That's what. Where'd you get this?" He brandished the magazine as if Daniel had been caught stealing a priceless gem.

"Hey man, relax," Daniel replied with clear annoyance, pushing himself off of his stomach as if to stand. "I just found it sittin' round."

"Think you can just steal people's stuff like that?" Gary spat. The room had gone nervously silent. Tommy caught the edge of a slur in Gary's voice, suggesting the older man had been drinking. "You're just like them bastards who tried to loot my place. You think you can just _do_ that?" Suddenly Gary lunged forward and pushed Daniel, sending both the young man and his cot tumbling sideways and clattering to the floor.

Others were on their feet in an instant. The floorboards shook and squeaked as boots and shoes abruptly hit the ground. Several people were grabbing Gary's shoulders and flailing arms, while others crowded around Daniel, pulling him upright and attempting to calm him as he started cursing and struggled to come to his feet and return the favor to Gary. Shouting filled the tight, tense second floor. Before he knew it, Tommy was standing in alarm, intent upon breaking up the disturbance before it got out of control, but he felt a hand grab his arm before he had taken even a single step.

"Tommy, leave it." Tommy looked behind him to see Joel already on his feet, his expression intense and wary as he held his brother back. "_Leave_ it," Joel repeated.

But Tommy never had a chance to decide whether or not to take Joel's advice. Suddenly a child's voice rang out above all the shouting, clear as a bell.

"Infected! Outside!"

The effect was akin to shouting _Fire!_ in a crowded movie theater, save that instead of running for the exits, everyone was suddenly stumbling towards the windows, pressing against one another for a glimpse of the barricades below. Gary and Daniel were forgotten.

Outside, the barricades were lit up by a handful of battery-powered lanterns and a solitary floodlight plugged into a humming generator. From their vantage overlooking the QZ's outer perimeter, Tommy could see the darkness outside the barricades teeming with moving bodies. He pressed against the window, switching off the lantern by which he had been working in order to better see outside. Joel joined him and Tommy could sense the tense expectation that stilled his brother's movements.

Soldiers were on the makeshift walls and they were shouting, gesturing wildly, waving flashlights and flares. Below the barricades, outside the zone, dozens of bodies threw themselves against the crude wood and cement fortifications. But there was something abnormal about their movements. They were too controlled, too rational.

"Jesus Christ," Tommy suddenly breathed out. "They're not infected. They're not infected!" The only abnormal thing about their movements was that they were not moving with the rabid ferocity that characterized the infected. They were pounding wildly against the barricades, but not clawing at them like animals. Tommy looked sideways at Joel. "Why aren't they lettin' them in?"

Joel tapped the window, drawing Tommy's attention back to the street below. Now he saw it. The soldiers were wildly pointing their flashlights not at the refugees clamoring at the base of the barricades, but at what approached behind them. The darkness writhed with a mass of running bodies in the distance, all racing for the desperate refugees who pounded at the doors of the Huntersville Quarantine Zone.

"Oh dear lord, let them in! Let them in, please God!" someone cried out inanely.

The crack of a single gunshot silenced all who stood watching the horror from the second floor windows of the old café. Tommy caught sight of the muzzle flash below. A second shot followed, and then a third. And in an instant the air was thick with the clatter of gunfire and the screams of those outside the walls. Tommy could see the horde of sprinting infected slow its rapid approach as the bodies of those at the fore jerked and lurched with the force of bullets tearing flesh. But still the infected rushed up the street, an unrelenting wave of terror careening towards the Huntersville barricades.

"Oh my god, oh my god," a woman to Tommy's left suddenly began whispering, her voice catching as if she could barely find the breath to get the words out. "They're shooting them. They're shooting them. They're actually shooting them."

"Holy shit," Joel murmured, nose pressed nearly against the glass.

"They're not infected," Tommy said breathlessly as realization dawned. "They're not shootin' the infected. Joel, they're not shootin' the infected."

And they weren't. Or at least, that's not all they were shooting. Even from above, it was clear the soldiers below were firing at both infected and uninfected alike. Waves of bullets mowed through the refugees pounding at Huntersville's gates, spraying gouts of blood across the gray asphalt of the street. As the desperate refugees turned to flee the gunmen on the wall, they met only the rushing onslaught of the infected. The sound of gunfire joined with the hungry howls of Runners and the wild screams of the unfortunate souls caught in between. The street gleamed with slick red blood.

The onlookers on the second floor of the old café said nothing. Even those who had initially cried out subsided into silence, mouths aghast with soundless horror as the blood bath continued below. How long it continued was impossible to say. But when it did finally stop, when the sound of gunfire and the wild shrieks of the infected had finally abated, the silence remained like a cloying poison. It clenched at every heart in the room.

Tommy felt Joel move beside him. It was several seconds before Tommy could tear his eyes away from the carnage below, but when he did, he saw the grim look that Joel wore. Joel still stared at the gore beyond the barricades, but his eyes flickered sideways for a moment to steal a glance at Tommy. His jaw was rigid.

"So much for workin' together." His voice was like gravel.

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks so much for reading and reviewing! And I'd like to extend a special thank you to seraphiel1 for reviewing Dirt out of the blue after several months without an update and reminding me I had this sitting on the back burner! I currently work full time and attend law school in the evenings, so sometimes real life gets in the way, but this is a story near and dear to my heart. As always, therefore, please Follow this story (and maybe leave a review too!) if you want to be alerted to my sometimes infrequent updates. Thanks all!<strong>

**A note on names - I read somewhere that the name Miller was briefly attached to Joel and Tommy in an Asian release of the Last of Us, but pulled in later versions. I figured at this early point of the epidemic, surnames would still carry significance, which is why I chose to use Miller here. As for the names of towns, aside from Austin, all the other names are my own creation and any real life towns by these names in Texas are purely coincidental!**


	4. Chapter 4 - Huntersville

Chapter 4

_August 12, 2014, 1:30pm_

"Y'know what they never tell you about the apocalypse? How goddamn long it takes to do goddamn anything."

The other barricade crewmen chuckled as knives and forks clattered across plates. They sat clustered around a pile of broken cement slabs, recognizable by the bright green reflective vests they each wore. Today's lunch was a rare treat: barbeque chicken and rice, with half a peach to each man.

"No, serious now," Javier continued with mock seriousness, egged on by the grins of his comrades. "We'd've been finished this goddamn wall a week ago if we'd had even a single fuckin' back-hoe. Please dear God, in your infinite wisdom, please see fit to drop upon this miserable place at least a goddamn Bobcat that runs. And world peace, end of the plague, all that too."

That earned another round of laughter from the crewmen, who sat with backs against broken cement and lunches balanced on their knees. Even Joel smiled as he silently used a small knife to carve thin slices off of his peach. Grinning at the attention, Javier set aside his empty plate and dug into a shirt pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. As he lit one using a box of matches, he muttered dramatically, "I ever meet one of them Hollywood producers, I'm gonna tell 'em they got it all wrong. Less crazy shit and special effects," he said, now waving the lit cigarette around with exaggerated disdain. "More walkin' and carryin' shit and walkin' some more. Fuckin' blockbuster, am I right?"

Tommy smiled and shook his head, scraping up the last of his barbeque sauce into his remaining rice. The crewmen gradually devolved into their own conversations, leaving Javier to suck quietly on his cigarette as he leaned forward onto his knees, balanced between two slabs of cement.

Tommy and Joel sat just below him, sweat beading their brows and staining the arms and necklines of their ratty work shirts. The Texas summer sun was not gentle, but the overripe peaches were going some way towards alleviating the oppressive heat. Perched like a king atop his mountain, Javier reached down to nudge Tommy's arm, nodding towards the line of civilians marshalling outside the ration distribution tent. Several of them were casting dirty looks in the direction of the barricade crewmen. "What you think, Tommy boy," Javier grinned. "You think those pendejos just like the view over here or something?"

Tommy followed Javier's not-so-subtle gesture towards the people lining up for their rations. Several of them raised curled lips when they spotted Javier and Tommy looking in their direction. Their own lunch would also consist of rice, but with only canned peas to supplement.

"Must be your good looks and sparklin' personality, Jav," Tommy returned sarcastically, keeping his voice low and casting his eyes downward.

Tommy actually quite liked Javier, with his irreverent sense of humor and his shameless thirst for attention. It was a welcome relief from the otherwise dull and depressing QZ life. Javier was a couple years older than Joel, round-faced and brown-skinned, with a greasy mass of black hair that he kept under an even greasier old ball cap. He claimed to have been in road construction before the outbreak, but he really had two main talents: making people laugh and pissing people off.

As if to prove that point, Javier laughed aloud and nudged Tommy again, as if he had told some great joke. The expressions of the people in line darkened still further and several began muttering to one another. "Don't look so offended, Tommy boy. They should be grateful they got my good looks to look at. Without the likes of you'n me, they don't get their precious wall, do they? They don't like their rations? Tough shit. They're eatin', ain't they? More'n some folks in Austin can say, hey?"

Tommy glanced up at Javier with a frown and lifted brows, a look of mock conciliation. "You gotta way of puttin' it into perspective, Jav," he said, tone again sarcastic but not reproachful.

"S'why he's got so many fans," Joel chipped in unexpectedly, expression half-smug as he cut off another sliver of peach without looking up. Tommy shook his head and smiled. Their time on the barricade crew had helped to lift some of Joel's abiding black mood and for that Tommy was grateful, even if Joel still kept to himself more often than not.

"Why rub their noses in it though?" Tommy said, more seriously this time as he glanced back towards the civilians waiting for their rations. "Captain Hogan doesn't want the protests at the Astro gettin' worse. Folks're already uneasy about Austin."

Uneasy was an understatement. Huntersville had moved from uneasy to angry when the first riots had broken out a week ago. It had been three months since Austin's agricultural teams, operating outside the wall, had been overrun by infected. Word had it that the city had seen continuous riots for over a month now. In response, the capitol had more than halved the amount of food it sent out to the smaller zones, with the result that Huntersville had begun organizing volunteer salvage teams to sweep nearby towns for supplies. In the first week, two teams had never returned and a third had limped back with news that armed bandits roamed the highways north of Huntersville. After that, the volunteers had dried up and the conscriptions had begun. Every civilian rotated through the salvage teams now, age and health permitting. And all but a favored few, most notably the barricade crews, were causing increasing unrest in protest at the continuing mandatory excursions.

But if Javier was concerned about making a scene, he didn't show it. He waved his cigarette dismissively, leaving a trail of smoke to disperse in the air in front of him. "They got somethin' to say to us, then just say it. Fuckin' people don't have the balls to do it. They want our rations, but you think they want our job? No fuckin' way, amigo." He raised his voice loud enough so that those in line could hear. "'Cause god forbid the infected carry our useless asses away!" Snorting and shaking his head at the half-angry, half-confused expressions of those who had heard him, Javier lowered his voice again. "People like you'n me, Tommy boy, we been dealin' with people like them our whole lives. Welcome to the new world, folks, where you lazy pendejos don't get to leech off the work of better men. Am I right, Joel?"

"Right, Jav," Joel replied vaguely. Javier laughed aloud again.

"Ha! Y'see? Your brother's a smart man, Tommy boy. Smarter'n most here. Keep'm close, hey?"

But Joel didn't chuckle. Instead, he abruptly shifted from where he lounged with his back against a slab of cement. "Whoa now," he said. "What's this?" He was looking at the line of angry onlookers as he slowly leaned forward.

Tommy followed his brother's gaze. Several of those in line had abandoned their plates and were headed towards the barricade crew with looks that could have boiled water. Joel set aside his peach and wiped his knife on his jeans as he stood, but Tommy noticed he did not flip the pocketknife closed afterward. Javier's smile faded, but his expression remained smug, as if savoring the opportunity for a fight.

"Well now," he said, standing and rubbing his hands together, cigarette dangling from his lips. "Somebody's got a pair of brass ones, after all." The group neared them and Javier suddenly beamed, clapping his hands together in approval. "I'd've guessed you, Charlie."

Charlie was short for Charlotte, the woman who stood at the head of the approaching group. She was thirty-something, short, and square. A messy braid of black hair framed a face that might have been pretty had it not been glowering at them. She pulled up in front of Javier and the barricade crew went quiet, as did the half dozen people following in Charlie's wake.

"Have you got a problem with us?" she demanded, her voice betraying the fact that she was no native of the Lone Star state. She eyed Joel and Tommy where they stood behind Javier.

"Why I sure do, honey," Javier replied casually, as if nothing in the world were more obvious. He waited for her to reply, but leapt at the chance to continue when she merely snorted indignantly. "Oh, nothin' to say? Here, lemme help. You barricaders," he said, in a mockingly high-pitched voice. "You think you're _all that_, with your better rations and coffee twice a week and your pretty green vests. It's just not _fair._ _I_ want a pretty green vest _too_."

Charlie's cheeks grew redder than the Texas sun could make them. "If you're so smart, Javier, then why don't you actually try answering," she hissed. "What gives you the right to better rations? We all go outside the wall now."

"What, once a month?" Javier snorted derisively. "Try daily, babe. You wanna cry about eight poor souls in a month? Try sixty-two in a fuckin' year. Try fuckin' _volunteerin'_."

The barricade crew behind Javier crowed their agreement, shouting down the angry cries that suddenly broke out behind Charlie. Charlie herself looked fit to spit. "We're all doing our part, you son of a bitch. What makes you think you're better than the rest of us?"

Javier laughed mockingly, spreading his arms wide as if to shrug. "Ain't me, precious." He pointed skyward. "It's the powers that be that're feedin' me better'n you."

That was it. With a howl of rage, Charlie launched herself at Javier, despite the fact that he stood a good half a head over her. Javier's smug mirth gave way to anger and he braced for her impact. But from beside Javier, Joel moved unexpectedly quickly, stepping to Charlie's side as she lunged forward and wrapping an arm over one of her shoulders and across her chest so that he could hold her from behind. She had a powerful amount of rage, but nowhere near Joel's strength.

"Joel, fucking let me go!" she screamed, fingernails digging into the skin on Joel's forearm. "Get the fuck off of me!" She tried to kick behind her to no avail.

"Charlie, just—" Joel started to say, but his words turned to a grunt of surprise and pain as one of Charlie's companions swung a fist and caught Joel just behind the left ear.

In an instant, the barricade men were on their feet, chicken and peaches forgotten as they suddenly swarmed around their attackers, outnumbering them two to one. Angry shouts filled the air and reflective green vests flashed as those on both sides sought to land punches amidst a mash-up of bodies, with Javier and Charlie at the center. Tommy found himself swept up into it, yelling as he fought to keep the non-barricaders from pummeling Javier or Joel. Without the clearance for a proper punch, however, Tommy mostly just found himself pushing against flailing limbs and grabbing at the edges of clothing. Someone yanked at his collar, briefly choking him until Joel kicked behind him and the pressure on Tommy's throat released. He saw a hand holding a fork flash in front of him. At one point, he felt his fingers jab at something soft that he suspected was someone's eye. A couple of people fell to the dusty ground and fought against a tangle of legs.

It took gunshots to bring the fight to a halt. Barricaders and non-barricaders stumbled back from one another, searching wildly for the source of gunfire. A row of soldiers stood with assault rifles aimed at the brawlers and at their center stood a young lieutenant with a pistol held aloft. He did not look pleased.

Several people lay on the ground, including Charlie. Both Javier and Joel were still standing, but Javier looked to have been the victim of the fork that Tommy had spotted, if the four bloody lines across his right cheekbone were any clue. As for Joel, he was nursing a bloody nose, in addition to the scratches Charlie has left across his arm.

"What the hell's goin' on here?" the lieutenant demanded, slowly lowering his firearm.

"We demand to know why barricade crews get better treatment than _anyone_ else in the zone." Charlie was struggling up from the dust, spitting and snorting, but no less angry as she rounded on the lieutenant.

"God_damnit_, Charlie," Joel growled, wiping a sleeve across his mouth to mop up some of the blood that had soaked into his beard and trickled across his lips. "Are you really gonna get into this again?"

"Yes, _Joel_," Charlie returned, with just as much as growl in her voice. She planted her hands on her hips. "I'll keep asking until I get an answer."

"Oh you've already had an answer, sweetheart," Javier spat impatiently as he stooped and swept his ball cap up from the ground, where it had fallen in the scuffle. "Not likin' it ain't the same as not havin' it." His cheek was slick with blood from where the fork had dragged deep scratches across his brown skin. Dust coated half of his face and had been ground into his hair.

Although grimacing at the sight, Tommy looked annoyed as he dug into his back pocket and pulled out a sweaty kerchief, which he threw at Javier. "Jesus, Jav," he said angrily. "You ain't helpin'. Just bleed for awhile and shut the fuck up."

"Enough!" the army lieutenant barked. He had not holstered his sidearm, but he held it pointed at the ground. "You all, clean yourselves up and leave these folks alone," he said, pointing at Javier and the other green-vested barricade crewmen. "And you, miss," he continued, glaring now at Charlie and her comrades. "Captain Hogan _has_ already explained why the barricaders get premium rations. They're on the wall daily and do some of the hardest physical work in the zone. You got a problem with that explanation, you take it up with the captain."

"We're not stupid, commander," Charlie protested, arms crossed. "Our FEDRA dictators are fattening up the strong and powerful in the zone because the writing's on the wall. When things go south, you want _them_ to stand beside you."

"Ma'am," the lieutenant growled in a deceptively quiet tone, patience vanishing. "Leave. Now."

Charlie looked as if she was willing to challenge the officer's ultimatum, but at just that moment, the unmistakable wallop of a helicopter's blades cut the hot summer afternoon air. All eyes turned skyward, to the southwest, where a swamp-green military Huey was rapidly approaching Huntersville, heading for the makeshift helipad that had been set up in the Astro parking lot, where the Federal Disaster Response Agency had made its headquarters when it had finally reached Huntersville around Christmas last year.

"All right!" one of the other barricade crewmen cried out, fight forgotten as he punched the air triumphantly. "Austin news, 'bout fuckin' time!"

Both barricaders and non-barricaders alike began grinning. Even as tense as things were now, news from Austin was always a treat, a fragile reminder that Huntersville was not alone in this pandemic-stricken world. With a huff, Charlie turned on her heel and headed back towards the ration line, her followers in tow. The barricade crew began gathering up their things, intent on heading to the Astro and hearing what the word was from Austin before returning to their work.

"C'mon," Joel mumbled as they turned away from the lieutenant and soldiers. "Let's go see about Austin."

"Another Bonnie letter, eh?" Javier said with a wicked grin, jabbing an elbow into Joel's side as if it were a normal day and they were not both nursing bloody faces. Joel didn't respond, but he did snort into the rag he was now holding under his nose.

"Two went out, didn't they?" Tommy said as he gathered up their plates and silverware. "Wonder why the second stayed at Austin."

"Mighta gone to another zone," Joel grunted.

"Yeah, maybe."

The arrival of an Austin helicopter usually drew crowds hungry for news or letters from loved ones. By the time they arrived at the Astro parking lot, the helicopter they had seen approaching had already landed and was powering down. Eager onlookers were clustered around the wooden barriers that the military had thrown up around the helipad. But people tended to make way for the green vests that distinguished the barricade crews and Joel, Tommy, and Javier managed to elbow their way to the front, standing at the extreme edge of the helipad, near the Astro Mart. Soldiers were scurrying back and forth around the building, with greater vigor and more shouting than Tommy would have expected. Something felt off.

A young private emerged from the Astro holding a large industrial first aid kit. It was Jon Gregory, the very same private who had once taken down Joel and Tommy's names and information when they had first come to Huntersville.

"Jon!" Tommy said, loudly enough for Gregory to hear, but not enough to attract the attention of the other soldiers rushing around the headquarters. For a moment, Gregory looked like a deer in the headlights, but he visibly relaxed when he caught sight of Tommy waving at him. Tommy had never had difficulty earning the trust of others. Where Joel preferred to shirk attention and keep his head down, Tommy felt most at ease when he was in the midst of everything, so that he could keep a finger on it all. And Jon Gregory, fortunately, was one of the more reliable gossips in Huntersville's military.

"What's goin' on, Jon?" Tommy said. He kept his voice light-hearted, but he could feel the uneasy edge creeping into it. "They're usually unloadin' mail by now, but y'all are actin' like you've got a fire under you."

"Ain't good, boys," Gregory whispered, nodding to both brothers and Javier. "Ain't gonna be any mail this time, maybe not for awhile." He swallowed and lowered his voice, motioning for them to lean in. "You heard anything?"

Tommy shook his head.

Gregory let a hushed breath escape his lips, shaking his head. "Austin's outta control. Rioters are rippin' into FEDRA there." He paused a moment to let that sink in, then nodded softly towards the helicopter. "They got our second chopper."

Joel's brow furrowed, his dark eyes suddenly wary. "What d'you mean, they got it?"

"Broke into Austin's airfield and _took_ it. Wouldn't let our boys near it. The fellas in this one barely got airborne before fuckin' rioters rushed 'em. They were shootin' at them, fuckin' shootin' at them as they were flyin' off."

Joel shifted to look around Gregory. Tommy followed his brother's gaze to the now silent helicopter. Sure enough, bullet holes were visible on its undercarriage and on the bottom half of one of the doors. One of the soldiers clustered around the aircraft moved, giving Tommy a clear view of the interior of the helicopter. A woman in a blue FEDRA uniform was lying on the floor, squirming in apparent pain as soldiers with red gloves hovered around her. Tommy sucked in a breath and Joel shot him a meaningful look.

"Look, boys," Gregory muttered, "I gotta go. Hogan's plannin' on trouble. We're makin' an announcement tonight, but the captain's gonna be looking for civilian volunteers to help keep things calm here. If Austin's offline right now, we're talkin' no extra supplies, no letters. And FEDRA central command is gonna have its hands full, not gonna be botherin' with any of the smaller zones. You boys think about steppin' up, alright?"

"Right," Joel said without conviction, before either Tommy or Javier could respond. Tommy felt his lips part as Gregory turned and began jogging towards the helicopter. The young private's revelation felt like a hammer that they had watched falling for three months: it was no surprise when it finally hit, but it still hurt like hell.

There was something innately grounding about Austin. Every time a chopper or convoy of trucks arrived from the capitol, they were greeted by eager crowds. Mail drops were celebratory events as people waited to hear from loved ones or from the pen pals they had never met but had exchanged letters with as part of FEDRA's Morale Maintenance Program. Austin sent food and water. Austin sent guns and ammunition. Austin sent soldiers, trucks, building materials, barbed wire. And Austin sent orders. It was the center of FEDRA's command hierarchy in central Texas, the hub around which the smaller QZs revolved and coordinated efforts to combat the pandemic. In everything, Austin was structure. It was safety.

And now it was under siege.

"Jesus," Tommy breathed, looking at Joel. "Austin's fallin' apart?"

"Which means Huntersville might not be far behind," Joel muttered. He was quiet a moment, then drew a slow, deep breath. He nodded at Javier. "Your buddy Charlie mighta been right, Jav, if they're lookin' for barricade crews to step up."

Javier crossed his arms and allowed a deliberately childish pout to pucker his lips. "Fuck if I'm gonna admit it."

* * *

><p><em>August 20, 2014, 7:15am<em>

Tommy stared at his reflection in the broken mirror. He looked haggard, but that seemed unshakable here in the quarantine zone. Haunted, maybe? Troubled. The strain of the past week was apparent in the dark circles beneath his eyes and the tight muscles of his clenched jaw. Creases cut across his face around his eyes and mouth, and his cheeks, already brown from long hours under the sun, were growing splotchy from poor sleep. He had let his beard grow in, but it was ragged and thin. A year ago, he might have been mistaken for one of the homeless that roamed the streets of Austin.

Vaguely, Tommy found himself wondering how much remained of the man he had been a year ago.

"Tommy."

He turned away from the mirror to find Joel watching him with a look of disapproval, as if his brother had guessed Tommy's thoughts. Joel was like that. He didn't talk about the way things had been except on a superficial level, such as when Javier would joke about all the perks of the old world, like football and porn. Even when Joel had anything to add in the letters they sent to Bonnie in Austin every few weeks, he would avoid any talk about Perkins or how things used to be and ask instead how she was faring now.

"C'mon," Joel said, waving. "They'll be there by now."

Nodding distractedly, Tommy pushed away from the table he had been standing in front of, with its basin of room-temperature water and a broken mirror. Four beds occupied the former living room of the apartment in which they made their residence, but Tommy and Joel were currently alone. The sun was already risen and shining burnt orange across the living room carpet.

Returning to his bed, Tommy grabbed his green vest and the brown hunting rifle that leaned against the wall next to the bed. Joel was waiting at the front door for him and together they left the apartment and began descending the flight of stairs to the ground level.

"You hear the rioters last night?" Tommy asked as they walked, hefting the rifle strap over his right shoulder once he had donned his vest.

Joel nodded. "They're still goin'. Y'can hear 'em up on the roof."

The roof. Joel seemed to spend a lot of time alone on the roof of their apartment building. That he could hear the rioters from up there was no surprise. For a week, they had entrenched themselves along several of the side streets that immediately flanked the Astro Mart complex, occasionally venturing out from their makeshift walls of tables and stacked file cabinets to throw bricks and bottles at the soldiers who guarded the main FEDRA headquarters at the Astro. Lines of soldiers in riot gear now surrounded the place 24/7. Tear gas and rubber bullets were beginning to run in short supply.

The brothers found Javier and the rest of their barricade crew at the far north of the Huntersville zone, where a long sliding gate granted entry through the zone's 15-foot high cement wall. There were plans to build the wall higher, but the barricade crew was currently working long days in order to construct a second gate, one that would go right behind the first and allow those entering the zone to go through standard decontamination procedures behind the relative safety of a gate without first fully entering Huntersville. Every person and vehicle that entered Huntersville went through decontamination, which at the moment took place outside the wall. More than once, however, vehicles had returned with a pack of Runners hot on their heels. And if outsiders could not be decontaminated before the infected reached the wall? Well. The gate opened for no man if there were infected near.

The skeleton of the second gate was spread out on the ground beside the first gate. Several crewmen were working to install the new sections of wall into which the new gate would eventually slide when opened, while others were bent over the half-finished gate itself, constructed primarily from the cannibalized remnants of an old railroad container. The area hummed with the sound of generators and the crack of hammers.

"Well, just in time for the fun!" Javier was bent over the new gate with a wielding gun in one hand and a wielding helmet covering his face, but he straightened and lifted the helmet up as soon as he caught sight of Tommy and Joel approaching. He was grinning, despite the four long scabs that marred the right side of his face. "Truck's comin' in, boys."

Joel lifted a brow and Tommy looked up at the ramparts of the wall that stood above them. The soldiers on the wall were gesturing to one another and pointing, indicating that a truck was indeed outside and currently going through decontamination.

"One of ours?" Joel asked. He set down his rifle against the wall and started to roll up the sleeves of his dirty gray checkered shirt.

"Mmhmm. Went out yesterday afternoon. Don't even look like it's got any infected followin' it. Lucky day, hey?" Javier was still smiling, but Joel and Tommy nodded in all earnestness. The riots around the Astro had reached a feverish level in the past week and the noise seemed to have drawn more infected to the area. The sound of gunfire was part and parcel of QZ life, but it had been several months since the wall had been assailed by the number of Runners that they had seen in the past week. Now, you could almost count the hours by the frequency with which automatic rifle fire cracked across the sky.

Every barricader now carried a firearm of some sort, issued by the military ostensibly to protect against the increasing attacks by infected. It was no secret, however, that Captain Hogan of FEDRA Huntersville Command wanted a show of force throughout the zone in an attempt to quell the riots.

"Here we go!" one of the soldiers on the wall shouted. The barricade crew looked up and moved away as soldiers on the ground began to unlock the old gate and slide it back in order to make way for the truck waiting outside. As the gate rolled back, it revealed a military transport truck, mottled green and idling, hopefully with a plethora of salvaged goods stowed away under its canvas top. It started to roll forward through the gate.

Without warning, a brownish-red object flew through the air almost in slow motion, arcing over the heads of the barricade crew before smashing into the windshield of the truck. The driver slammed on the brakes with an audible angry cry of, "What the hell!"

"Who threw that?" an officer on the wall suddenly shouted, glaring at those gathered on the ground below. But the barricaders were looking behind them. The wall had been built at the far side of a wide street, and within the zone and across the street from the wall, a row of squat empty office buildings hunkered over a series of back alleys filled with abandoned garbage cans and idle cars.

People with bandanas wrapped across their faces were now spilling from those alleys, clutching broken bottles, bricks, pipes, and splintered planks of wood as weapons. A cry rose up from their ranks.

"Rioters!" Tommy shouted, swinging his rifle off of his shoulder as other barricade crewmen scrambled to retrieve their firearms.

"They want the fuckin' truck!" Javier snorted, as if personally offended that the rioters would even _contemplate_ interfering with business on the wall. He flicked the safety off of the revolver he had been issued.

The rioters were pouring into the street, perhaps 50 or 60 in all. The crowds at the Astro had been far more substantial, but not near as well armed. If this group intended to take the truck, they did not intend to do so peaceably. The officer on the wall, a sandy-haired lieutenant, suddenly lifted a loudspeaker in one hand and a pistol in the other.

"Stop where you are," the lieutenant's voice crackled through the loudspeaker. "Stop now or we will be forced to open fire! We have live ammo!"

If the rioters heard the lieutenant's warning, they chose to ignore it. Tommy glanced sidelong at Joel. Both brothers had raised their rifles to point at the rushing rioters and formed a line in front of the open gate with their fellow barricaders. Soldiers on the wall were aiming assault rifles inward towards the rioters.

"Fuckin' tell me we're not gonna do this," Tommy breathed out as if talking to himself, blinking rapidly. The rioters were at a dead run now and closing fast, 200 feet away from the wall. "Goddamnit people, just stop!"

"Tommy!" Joel snapped, staring down the barrel of his rifle. His tone said more than words could. It demanded that Tommy get his head in the game and focus, right now.

Everyone was shouting. A cacophony of cries went up from soldiers and barricaders alike, all screaming for the sprinting rioters to stop. Tommy felt his palms go cold as images of a dark November night nine months ago flashed before his eyes. This was going to be a blood bath.

"Joel, we can't do this," Tommy gritted through clenched teeth. "We can't _do_ this. This is _wrong_, Joel!" The rioters were 100 feet away.

"Tommy!" Joel growled without elaboration again, his voice rising now.

Tommy hadn't lowered his rifle, but he was shaking his head, eyes wide. "We can't _do_ this, Joel!" he repeated. The rioters were 50 feet away from the wall. They were going to do this. They were really going to do it.

Above the shouting, an inhuman cry rang out.

Tommy had barely processed what he had heard before he felt a body slam into him from behind. He stumbled forward, the barrel of his rifle falling to point at the ground as he caught a flash of bright green to his side, indicating he had been pushed by a fellow barricader. Once he had regained his balance, he turned to look behind him, still half-confused even as instinct told him what he would see.

Infected were pouring through the gate like locusts descending on a field. The idling military truck remained blocking the gate, leaving the zone wide open to uninhibited entry. Tommy watched as Runners with blood-shot eyes and curled hands pulled the unfortunate driver from the cab of the truck and dragged him to the ground, broken fingernails clawing at the man's face and chest. Other infected were already through the gate and several set upon a barricader who had been standing nearer the wall. The poor man twisted and flailed as the infected tore at him. The rifle he had been holding abruptly discharged and Tommy saw one of the soldiers on the wall jerk as the erratic bullet struck him.

All of this took only a handful of seconds to process, but even as Tommy turned away from the gate to flee the onset of the infected, the wave of rushing rioters, briefly forgotten, slammed into the line of barricade men. Chaos descended.

Tommy suddenly felt as if every shouting voice, every inhuman scream, blurred into a single uniform din. Gunfire erupted all around him, but amidst the tangle of scrambling bodies, he could not tell if those falling to the ground were felled by shots or infected. A Runner appeared in front of him, a woman with gray hair and pulsing veins across her face, and he brought his rifle to bear on her, instinctively pulling the trigger before he could even think of a response. She jolted backwards by the force of the bullet, a spouting red hole opening up just under her throat, then tumbled forward to the dusty ground. Another Runner, this one barely out of his teens, suddenly grabbed Tommy's arm and opened his mouth, eyes wild as he prepared to bite. Tommy swung the butt of his rifle up, jerking his arm out of the infected's grasp and slamming the stock of his gun into the infected's temple. The Runner stumbled with an anguished cry and pawed at his head where the rifle had struck him. Tommy spun and fired, the bullet ripping through both the Runner's hand and head and driving him to the ground. A wriggling thought tugged at the back of Tommy's mind. Where was Joel? How had Tommy lost track of Joel?

Dust filled the air and Tommy began to feel the oppressive realization that he was trapped. The rioters were turning to flee the infected, but they were not moving fast enough. Runners were still pouring through the gate, moving with inhuman speed, overwhelming those on the ground, now pounding their way up the steps to reach the soldiers on the wall. He would die here. Tommy would die in this dusty, miserable place and his body would be just another among dozens.

_Tommy!_

As Tommy drove the barrel of his rifle into the gut of a lunging Runner and pulled the trigger, some tiny part of his brain felt like someone was calling his name amidst the din of yelling and gunfire. With insensible logic, an ironic sense of clarity, Tommy almost calmly wondered if the God that he had never really cared about was now calling him home.

"_Tommy!_" Not God. Like a steel rod through water, Joel's voice cut through the clamor, even as his hand wrapped around Tommy's shoulder. Tommy had just enough time to register Joel's bloody face and fingers before his brother shouted, "C'mon!" and spun him around, pushing him towards the stairs leading to the top of the wall.

Whether it was the movement or Joel's sudden presence, Tommy felt his head clear. His rifle was slick with blood, but he gripped it like a lifeline as he used it to pummel and push his way through the thrashing mash of bodies. The steps were mercifully clear, but he could see soldiers fighting infected at the top, along the ramparts that ran the length of the wall. Still, it was a welcome alternative to the suffocating pit below. Tommy pounded up the stairs.

As he neared the ramparts, he heard the sharp discharge of a revolver behind him and saw a Runner drop from the wall to the ground below. Tommy turned to look back at Joel and noticed for the first time that Javier was following them. He held his revolver aloft, smoke still wrapping around the barrel.

"Savin' your ass, hey Tommy boy?" Javier huffed with an exhausted grin. For just a second, Tommy choked out a relieved laugh to see his friend still alive. Then he was back to scrambling up the stairs.

"Goddamnit!" Joel growled once they had reached the top of the wall. Infected were clawing at soldiers on either side of them; whichever direction they took along the battlements was blocked by Runners. There had to have been dozens of them, hundreds, more. The inhuman creatures writhed on the ground below and on either side of them, overwhelming soldiers, barricaders, and rioters alike. Huntersville was surely lost.

Joel put a hand against the cement wall and leaned out to look to the ground outside the zone. "It's clear below," he muttered, indescribably calm.

"What?" Tommy said, eyes widening in disbelief. "It's a _fifteen fuckin' foot_ drop below!"

"You got any other fuckin' ideas, Tommy?" Joel shouted angrily.

Javier joined Joel at the wall, looking down below as well. To their right, a Runner screamed as it caught sight of them and began galloping down the ramparts in their direction. Others began to follow suit. "Aw hell," Javier murmured in a strangled tone. "Nice fuckin' day for a jump, boys!"

The three of them cast wide-eyed looks at each other, shook their heads, then hooked legs over the wall and vaulted over towards the ground below.

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks for reading and reviewing! Any feedback or suggestions are always appreciated. I'm beginning to suspect my original estimate of ten chapters was probably conservative for this story because I feel like there's so many directions I can go with it. At the moment, I have the next 3-4 chapters planned out, but I'm also open to suggestions. If there's anything you think Tommy and Joel did in the 20 years following the cordyceps outbreak - aside from the obvious ones, like probably becoming Hunters or Tommy joining the Fireflies - by all means suggest it! There are a huge variety of things people might do to survive and I suspect Tommy and Joel had to do a lot of them. As always, please Follow to get alerts for my next update!<br>**


	5. Chapter 5 - The Silence

**For those wanting mood music for the first part of this chapter and who have not had the pleasure of listening to _Springsteen_ before, google "Eric Church Springsteen video" for the official music video. Music actually starts at 00:28.**

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 5<span>

_August 25, 2014, 10:15pm_

The piano keys danced over the slow beat of the drum and the low hum of the guitar, filling the van's dark interior despite the tin-can crackle of the radio. _To this day when I hear that song, I see you standin' there on that lawn, _crowed Eric Church's rumble voice, coming through the car's speakers like a half-forgotten memory.

_Discount shades, store-bought tan  
>Flip-flops and cut-off jeans<br>Somewhere between that settin' sun  
>I'm On Fire and Born to Run<br>You looked at me and I was done  
>Just getting started.<em>

Tommy lay back in the reclined passenger seat, hand under his head, staring at the dark cloth ceiling of the mini-van.

_When I think about you  
>I think about seventeen<br>I think about my old Jeep  
>I think about the stars in the sky<em>

Through the dusty windshield, he could see a black sky dotted with stars, a million more than he had ever been able to see in the old days, when the glare of residential streetlamps and front porch lights had obscured the night sky.

_Funny how a melody  
>Sounds like a memory<br>Like a soundtrack to a July Saturday night  
>Springsteen<em>

He could smell summer grass and hear crickets chirruping outside the van. Through the darkness, the slow, deep memory of a different July Saturday night drifted back to him. The Travis County Fair. The fairgrounds a dusty pit of prize cows and carnival rides. The field beside the carnival and Brooks and Dunn up on the stage, hammering out _Only in America_ to a roaring crowd of thousands. Red, white, and blue confetti filling the air. Joel and Jeanne, sixteen, before Sarah had been born, before Jeanne had left. Tommy and his buddies cat-calling the teenage pair, promising not to tell mom and dad that Joel and Jeanne had gone out to the woods behind the parking lot if Joel gave them a couple bottles of the piss-water beer Jeanne had stolen out of her parents' garage.

_Springsteen  
>Springsteen<br>Oh Springsteen_

_Whoa, whoa, whoa-oh-oh  
>Whoa, whoa, whoa-oh-oh<em>

Tommy rubbed a hand over his eyes as the song faded along with the dusky roll of Eric Church's voice. For a few seconds, Tommy sat there in the silence, watching his chest rise and fall and soaking in the quiet.

"Go ahead'n turn it off, Tommy."

Sighing, Tommy sat up and reached for the steering wheel, turning the keys in the ignition back a notch but leaving them dangling under the steering column. The neon glow of the car radio faded to black. As he lay back down, he heard Joel and Javier's deep breathing behind him. If they were remembering memories anything like his own, they said nothing of it.

"Y'know, you look like Eric Church, Joel." Javier's voice drifted up from the rear of the van, just as a CD case flew up from the darkness of the back seat and clattered into Joel's lap, where he lay sprawled across the center row of seats.

"I do not," Joel grumbled, grabbing the case they had found in the van and holding it up. The starlight outside glinted off the face of Eric Church's _Chief_ album.

"Sure y'do," Javier cackled sleepily. "Getcha a pair of them aviators'n a ball cap. People'd be linin' up to meet you. We'd be livin' like kings. Here, try this on." Javier's greasy old cap flew over the rear seat next and hit Joel in the face.

"Shut up," Joel said, a smirk in his voice as he lifted himself up onto an elbow and launched the ball cap back in Javier's direction.

"All right, kids," Tommy yawned from the front seat.

They lapsed into silence again, only the sound of the crickets outside rippling through the cracked windows of the van. The interior was stuffy and only just beginning to cool down from the heat of the day, but they would not risk opening the windows any more than a few inches, lest infected wander into the area while they slept.

"So you boys given any thought to where we're actually goin'?"

Neither Tommy nor Joel immediately answered Javier, whose own unusually staid tone conveyed much of what all three were feeling. Five days they had been headed east, but without any real purpose. They had spent three days in a smaller town just east of Huntersville called Wyle, mostly just gathering supplies and letting Javier nurse the ankle he had sprained when they had jumped from the top of Huntersville's wall. No news had come out of the quarantine zone. No salvage teams had entered Wyle, which had been one of Huntersville's main salvage grounds. No helicopters flew overhead.

So when they had found a van that they could get running, they had continued east. Going back was not an option.

"Don't all answer at once," Javier said.

"How 'bout we just keep movin' for now," Joel finally said.

Tommy fingered the letter in his shirt pocket. "We could try Austin. Bonnie's there."

Joel grunted and Javier snorted. "Not a good idea, Tommy," Joel said quietly. "Last word outta Austin was the military was crackin' down pretty hard. And not just breakin' up riots."

"Don't really wanna be an outsider when they're already shootin' their own people," Javier muttered.

In the front seat, Tommy sighed quietly and pushed the letter deeper into his pocket. He felt the van rock slightly as Javier moved around in the back seat.

"Well, you boys got any family you wanna check on?" Javier asked a second later.

Tommy shook his head, then spoke up since Javier wouldn't be able to see the motion. "None we know's alive. Most were north of Austin, right around where they were sayin' the Austin zone was set up. Seems like if they'd made it...They weren't on any lists." Tommy glanced out the windshield again, feeling the familiar emptiness creep into his stomach as he thought of the family members whose fates were likely to remain a mystery forever. "How 'bout you, Jav?"

The silence from the back seat dragged on for several seconds. Tommy had almost begun to suspect Javier had drifted off to sleep until his friend cleared his throat.

"I got two kids." Javier's voice was falsely matter-of-fact. A pause, then the sound of shifting cloth, like he was shrugging. "But they were in Atlanta with their mom. Last I heard that place was a black hole. Ain't...really where I wanna go. Kinda...don't wanna know, y'know?"

Black silence drifted up from the middle seat where Joel lay. Tommy swallowed as quietly as he could and turned to look behind him. He could see the gleam of his brother's eyes. Joel was not sleeping.

"How 'bout we just keep headed east?" Tommy said, settling back into his seat. "Figure out where we're goin' later."

"Yeah, east," Javier answered quietly. "Just not Atlanta."

* * *

><p><em>August 27, 2014, 4:30pm<em>

"So where's all the swamp people?"

"This ain't the Twilight Zone, Jav."

"Uh, apocalypse?"

Javier sounded as if he were disappointed that Louisiana had not had voodoo priestesses handing out Mardi Gras beads at the border. They had passed a lonely sign a half hour back informing them that they had crossed into what had once been the State of Louisiana. For two days they had stuck to secondary roads and two-lane highways, avoiding the bigger thoroughfares and towns, with their risk of lurking Runners. Lush green vegetation folded over the edges of the road on which they traveled.

"Ain't you ever been to Louisiana, Jav?" Tommy asked, using the rear view mirror to look into the back seat.

"Nope," Javier said. "Never left fuckin' Texas, brother."

Joel twisted around from the front passenger seat, frowning at Javier, who sat with his sprained ankle propped up on the middle row of seats. "Thought y'said you were fourth generation? And you never been out of Texas?"

"Fourth generation ain't ever stopped no fat white guy payin' me minimum wage. Piss ass job'n an ex bleedin' me dry – where'm I gonna go on vacation?"

"Aw c'mon, you gotta be kiddin' me," Tommy said. But he wasn't talking to Javier. He was staring straight ahead as he hit the brakes, bringing the van to a slow stop. They were approaching a crossroads. An abandoned gas station squatted to their right and a dirty gray tavern sat across the street, at the corner of a road that intersected the one they were traveling on. The grass on either side of the road was long and green, but glimmering with water, as if a water pipe or well had broken somewhere and flooded the area.

At the center of the crossroads sat two cars, a red truck and tan sedan, mashed into one another as if they had struck head on. The sedan had been spun around so that it was nearly parallel with the truck and now blocked their road, leaving only a few feet of pavement between its rear bumper and the flood-soaked grass.

"Third fuckin' time today," Tommy grumbled, thumping the steering wheel.

Joel pointed at the back end of the sedan. "Just nudge the car bumper."

"That truck's right behind it. This van ain't gonna push 'em both."

"Then c'mon. Jav, you drive."

Joel flipped down the glove compartment and grabbed the compact .40mm pistol they had found there when they had requisitioned the vehicle. He opened his door and got out of the van, sticking the pistol in his rear waistband and gesturing for Tommy to follow him. Putting the van into park, Tommy got out as Javier crawled into the driver's seat.

"There," Joel said, pointing. "There's enough slope in the road we should be able to push it forward enough to get the van round."

Tommy followed his brother to the side of sedan. The windshield was cracked and the driver-side window was covered in a year of grime. Joel popped the door handle and pulled open the driver's door with a squelch that indicated it had been a long time since the car had been opened. The stench of musty rot hit them like a cloud, making Tommy gag and stagger back a pace. Joel clapped a hand across his mouth and nose and peered into the car's interior.

The mummified corpse of a woman sagged forward into the lose restraint of an old seatbelt. Dried brown blood stained the steering wheel and dashboard, likely a product of the gaping hole at the front of the dead woman's crushed skull. No airbag had deployed.

"Christ," Joel muttered as he pulled a kerchief from his pocket and clamped it over his mouth. Squinting in disgust, he leaned forward and ducked his head into the car. He reached past the sagging corpse until his fingers found the gear stick, but it was stiff from a year of disuse and Joel had to jerk at it a few times before Tommy heard it click into neutral.

"All right," Joel said with a final look of revulsion, slamming the door shut and wiping his brow with the kerchief. "Let's push."

The two of them positioned themselves at the back of the sedan and began pushing against the trunk. The car's tires had been long idle, but they were far from rotted and the car heaved forward with a groan as they threw their weight against it.

"Stop."

Joel and Tommy looked up at once. It was a woman's voice that had given the command. She was standing behind the red truck, a rifle couched against her shoulder and aimed straight at Joel. Both brothers immediately threw up their hands with looks of alarm, but she gestured with the tip of her rifle back towards the sedan.

"Nah, y'can put 'em right back on the car. And don't move 'em."

They exchanged a glance before complying, placing their hands back against the trunk of the car where the woman could see them. She couldn't have been any older than Tommy, but she looked like the sort of woman who had always been a tomboy, comfortable in the baggy jeans and hunting jacket she now wore, and sure as hell capable of using a gun.

"Fuckin' Christ!" Tommy suddenly heard from the direction of their van. He looked back to see two middle-aged men, both armed with pistols, dragging a kicking and screaming Javier from the vehicle. One of them, thin and gray, was holding Javier by an arm and his neck, while the other man, a mop of dirty blond hair hanging around his ears, held off Javier's flailing arms long enough to grab the revolver out of Javier's belt. "Get off me, y'fuckin' son of a bitch!" Javier snapped as they threw him against the hood of the van. He was limping heavily on his right ankle, touching only his toes to the ground and wincing every time.

"What the hell is this?" Joel growled, dark eyes flashing angrily as he watched the woman's two companions slam Javier's head against the van hood a second time when he continued to struggle against them.

"Friendly neighborhood stick-up," the woman answered snidely. "Now don't move, big guy." She maneuvered around the truck until she was standing behind the two brothers. Tommy suddenly felt the cold, hard barrel of her rifle dig into his back and he caught his breath, briefly wondering if she meant to execute them on the spot. But he glanced to the side and watched in his peripheral vision as she held the rifle against his back with one hand and dug the pistol out of Joel's waistband with the other. She looked up when she noticed Tommy looking back at her. "Eyes front, Keith Urban," she snapped.

Behind them, Javier had stopped struggling, but only because one of other men was holding his hands behind him and pressing his head against the hood.

"Now, gennelmen," the woman said matter-of-factly. "Y'can keep goin' the way you were and you'll hit DeFord, or y'can take that cross road there'n eventually you'll hit Beaumont, though I'll tell you now there's infected crawlin' all over that place. We don't really care, so long's you keep on walkin' and don't look back."

"Walkin'?" Tommy said, brow furrowing.

"S'right, kiddo. Your van and your gear is stayin', but you're free to go."

A black expression fell across Joel's face. "That some kinda joke? You wanna see how far he gets walkin'?" He nodded sharply back towards Javier.

"Ain't my business, big guy," the woman answered casually.

"Fuck that," Tommy snapped as he felt anger redden his neck and cheeks. "Never even mind his walkin'. You take our gear, y'may as well be killin' us already. This your sick idea of mercy, lady?"

"Right now, it's the only mercy you're gettin', mister. Mighty quick t'judge how much it's worth, given that."

"I ain't fuckin' walkin' to the east coast!" Javier yelled, voice muffled by the fact that his face was being smashed up against the van hood.

"Don't worry, Jav," Joel called back grimly, glaring at the woman. "We'll be dead by nightfall without a gun anyway."

"Better get a move on then," the woman said, unconcerned. She jerked the point of her rifle towards their van. "Y'can help your buddy, if y'want. Just keep your hands to y'self if you don't want a bullet in the back of y'heads."

Joel looked sideways at Tommy, his low brow set in a grim, angry line. But he breathed out a slow breath and pushed off of the sedan trunk. Casting a dark scowl towards their female highwayman, he slowly started walking in the direction of the van. Tommy followed suit, watching in his side vision as the woman followed a few steps to their side and behind them, rifle still trained on Joel.

Tommy tried not to think about how many miles they were from anywhere, out on this two-lane road in the middle of nowhere Louisiana. No vehicle was an inconvenience. No food or water was dangerous. But no guns, that was a death sentence. On the road, they had passed infected every few miles. The chilling reality was that civilization had not ended because the cordyceps had killed off three-quarters of the world's population. The world was not empty. Civilization had ended because the cordyceps had turned three-quarters of the world's population into very lethal, very mobile killing machines.

"Goddamn white-ass hicks," Javier muttered as Joel and Tommy neared the van. But when they were a few feet away, Javier suddenly yanked one arm out of the gray-haired man's grasp and squirmed sideways on the hood of the vehicle. His arm free, he jerked his elbow backwards and rammed the side of the gray-haired man's rib cage, earning a surprised cry from his captor, who doubled over. No longer pinned against the hood, Javier pushed up from the car and spun, yelling in pain as he placed his full weight on his sprained ankle. By then the second man had lifted Javier's revolver and cocked the hammer. Face contorted in pain, Javier dove forward, grabbing for the man's outstretched hand.

"What the—" Tommy heard the woman mutter angrily. She had taken a few steps forward as Javier had started to struggle and now stood alongside Joel. Tommy saw the barrel of her rifle move to point at Javier.

Joel was suddenly in motion. In one fluid movement, his left hand shot out and closed around the rifle barrel, jerking it upward and out of the woman's grasp. At the same time, he spun to face her, his back to Javier and the van, as she scrambled to lift the pistol that she had relieved Joel of moments before. Joel's free hand slammed down on the woman's wrist and she cried out in surprise as the pistol dropped to the ground.

Behind Joel, a single shot rang out.

Still holding the rifle in his left hand, Joel swung both fist and gun barrel at the woman's face, catching her squarely in the temple and tumbling her to the asphalt. Now Tommy was in motion. Without a word between them, the brothers acted on instinct. Joel tossed the rifle towards Tommy and stooped to sweep up the pistol from where it had fallen to the road. Both spun to look back towards the van.

A gray hole in the black road showed where the single wild shot had struck during Javier's struggle to reclaim his revolver from the man with the dirty-blond hair. That struggle was still being fought, with both men now holding the gun and attempting to overpower the other with brute strength. But now, beside them, the thin, gray man had recovered from the blow to his ribcage. He was yelling as he reached up to grab Javier from behind.

Joel raised his pistol and pulled the trigger.

The gray-haired man dropped to the ground like a ragdoll and his companion's eyes suddenly widened in shock. Javier did not hesitate. He slammed a shoulder into the second man's chest, driving him back a step, enough to loosen the man's grasp on the revolver. The barrel of the gun was suddenly flush against the second man's chest. Tommy heard the revolver fire and saw blood and bits of shirt blow out from the man's back as the bullet traveled straight through his body and kept on going. He collapsed to the ground and did not move.

"You son of a bitch!"

Tommy whirled around and lifted the rifle as the woman suddenly screamed behind him and Joel. She had scrambled up from where she had fallen, a bloody cut now soaking her hair at the temple. But she was flying at Joel like an animal, a hunting knife held in one hand with the tip of the blade facing up, aiming for the underside of Joel's chin. Joel had just enough time to grab the wrist of the hand holding the knife as she charged him, then Tommy was there, slamming the butt of the rifle into her shoulder to force her way from his brother. Joel let go of her wrist and she stumbled back a step, but fury immediately snarled her features again and she prepared to launch herself at Joel a second time.

And again, Joel raised his pistol and pulled the trigger.

Once, in another life, their father had told them to aim for a person's chest if they ever needed to shoot someone, in self-defense or to protect others. The head was a smaller target. More lethal, but smaller, whereas a bullet to the chest had a myriad of organs to tear into and break apart amongst, halting a person just as definitively as a bullet to the head, nine times out of ten.

Joel shot the woman in the head. With her standing only a few feet from him and rising only just to the height of his shoulders, it was almost impossible for him to miss. The air exploded in a spray of blood and gray matter...

Through the pines on either side of the road, the breeze whispered a quiet rhythm and rippled the ends of the long grass that crept over the edges of the asphalt. The crack of the pistol seemed to linger in the air long after its noise had actually faded. For a long time, no one said anything. Joel stood with his pistol still raised, breathing fast as he stared, not at the now dead woman, but at where she had stood a second before. When he did finally move, it was to lower the gun in a jerky, unsteady motion, all while he continued to stare at the empty air.

"Joel," Tommy said quietly after a few seconds, hesitation in his voice. "You...you okay?"

His brother gave a small, sharp nod. A second passed, then he nodded again, this time glancing almost furtively at Tommy, just for a moment. Joel's eyes were wide, his breathing uneven.

"Jav?" Joel called out abruptly, his voice scraping as if it hadn't been used in a long while. Tommy turned to look back towards the van.

"Fine," Javier swallowed, sounding similarly rattled. "Fine." He had collapsed to the ground and sat with his back against the front driver-side tire of their van. Anxious, adrenaline-drained fingers were digging for the pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket as he stared at the blond-haired man who lay dead at his feet.

Out of the side of his vision, Tommy saw Joel raise his left arm. He looked back at his brother, frowning as he wondered for a second if the woman's knife had managed to find flesh after all. But it hadn't. Instead, Tommy's breath caught in the back of his throat.

Somewhere in the scuffle, Joel had struck his wrist against something too hard. His watch, Sarah's watch, had shattered. Spider-web cracks split away from a gaping hole at the center of the watch's crystal face.

Joel's face was slack and gray as silence blew across the lonely Louisiana crossroad.

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks for reading and reviewing! Shorter chapter this time, but a few more feels. Hope you enjoyed. :)<strong>

**It goes without saying - I don't own anything related to Eric Church any more than I own anything related The Last of Us. Just a fan!**


	6. Chapter 6 - Evolution

**A quick aside. This chapter features an early version of the game's modified melee weapon. For the purists out there, yes I realize Joel looked like he was having a total light bulb moment when he finds the modified melee weapon atop the house at the start of Bill's Town. Forgive me if I'm introducing that concept a little earlier than the game implies - I find it hard to believe Joel survived 20 years without learning how to strap sharp things to long, swingable things. ;)  
><strong>

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 6<span>

_October 1, 2014, Late Evening_

The orange glow of the fire made the interior of the old wastewater treatment plant glisten as the light flickered across water seeping down cement walls. The entire place was pervaded by the damp that had leeched into the building over a year of disuse, but it was a welcome shelter from the storm that roared outside. Rain slapped against the large windows that were set high in the wall. The gusts of wind buffeted the old plant with such force and intensity that Tommy guessed they must be in the midst of a late-season hurricane that had made landfall wherever they were near the Mississippi Gulf coast.

Vaguely, Tommy found himself wondering what the weathermen would have categorized this hurricane as. Not that it mattered. Categories of hurricanes were for scientists who could study them from the safety of their comfortable offices. Now, it only mattered that it was a violent storm, and that meant seeking shelter.

They had set up a camp of sorts on the main floor of the plant, where the high ceiling of the cavernous building allowed the smoke from their fire to disperse without choking up the room. Fat gray and white pipes snaked throughout the space, creating the maze that had once transported water to and from the huge round vats outside the main building. Once, this building had likely thrummed with noise, but only the howl of the storm outside now echoed through its empty spaces.

Joel sat on the cement floor, his back against a pipe that was almost half as tall as he was. He had his knees drawn up and had propped up the broken handle of an old shovel between them. Currently he was using the last of a roll of Scotch tape to bind a pair of scissors to the end of the handle, angling the blades so that they were perpendicular to the handle itself. He had separated the blades and bound each an inch apart, parallel to each other.

On his left wrist, his broken watch glinted in the firelight as he worked.

"How's that?" he said, looking up as he set aside the empty roll of tape. It was rudimentary, but it would allow him to swing the broken handle and drive two three-inch-long blades into whatever, or whoever, he was swinging at.

"That tape's not gonna hold more'n a swing or two," Tommy replied from where he sat on the ground opposite Joel, eyeing the homemade weapon as Joel handed it to Javier for inspection.

"Don't need to, if y'hit the son of a bitch right the first time," Javier said. He wiggled the tip of one of the blades. Even with several layers of scotch tape, it did indeed seem likely to tear off after only a single blow. "Just need t'make sure you hit it in the head. Whatever's turnin' 'em crazy makes 'em not die like humans should. Like that bastard I shot in the goddamn chest? Fuck man, just made it angrier." Javier shuddered at the memory and handed the modified weapon back to Joel.

"Duct tape would probably work better," Joel muttered distractedly.

Javier grinned. "Ha! Right, amigo. Fuckin' end of the world? Nah. Guns and duct tape. All you need to live forever."

Joel glanced up belatedly, then gave a half-hearted smile as if processing the joke a few seconds too late. Sitting atop one of the pipes, Javier returned the smile, but shot Tommy a concerned glance once Joel had looked away. More than a month on the road had heralded the return of Joel's black mood. Not that Joel had ever been carefree, but the comfortable camaraderie that he had enjoyed during their time on the Huntersville barricade crew had all but vanished. He spoke less and watched more. His birthday had come and gone with no mention of it or any of the memories associated with it. Tommy wanted to believe it was simply Joel playing the role of big brother, but instinctively he knew it was more than that. Joel was afraid.

And that scared the hell out of Tommy.

"That sign on the highway said there was a town two miles from here," Joel said, setting the broken handle down beside him. "You gonna be able to make that tomorrow, Jav?"

"Sure," Javier replied unenthusiastically. Atop the pipe, his legs dangled down a few inches off the floor. His right ankle was wrapped in a plastic medical boot they had found at a pharmacy in Louisiana, but the added stability the boot afforded his sprained ankle had not sped their progress on the road. It had been a slow few weeks since their van had died not long after crossing into Mississippi.

"At least in a bigger town we got a better chance of findin' a car that works," Tommy offered optimistically. "Nothin' but junkers out here in the sticks."

"It's the gas," Joel muttered, sighing heavily as he closed his eyes and leaned his head against the pipe behind him. "The preservative's gone bad in most cars by now. Y'run that bad gas through an engine and you'll kill it. Just gotta find a car with a good tank that's kept the oxygen from gettin' in and ruinin' the gas."

The wind outside howled with a fresh gust, drowning out the pleasant crackle of their fire, but it brought with it a new sound. At first Tommy thought he had imagined it, but he noticed both Javier and Joel look up with perplexed expressions, frowning as if trying to determine what the noise was. It came in a quick throaty rhythm, like something swinging in the breeze, but slowly Tommy began to realize that it was echoing. It was inside the building.

It sounded like panting.

"What the hell is that?" Tommy said quietly, but loud enough for the others to hear him over the wind. Javier reached for the semi-automatic shotgun that he had left leaning against the pipe beside him, while both Tommy and Joel started to scramble up from the cement floor, moving slowly as they continued straining to hear the unfamiliar noise above the roar of the storm. Tommy lifted the hunting rifle he had brought with them when they had fled Huntersville, but Joel deftly picked up his new modified melee weapon and put a finger to his lips. Tommy nodded.

They had learned the hard way that their guns were often a liability. Nothing was more effective at taking down the infected, but God help you if you lingered in the area after discharging a firearm. Every gunshot seemed to draw fresh infected for miles around.

Several of the pipes in the cavernous room ran vertically from floor to ceiling, creating long columns of gray metal that cast deep shadows behind them. Joel gestured for Javier to stay where he was, but pointed Tommy towards the right side of the nearest set of vertical pipes. Joel moved to the left of the pipes.

Taking slow steps, Tommy steadily drew closer. When he was only a few feet from the pipes, he moved abruptly and stepped around them, pointing his rifle at the shadows behind. Nothing. Joel joined him, boots scraping on the cement floor.

Suddenly they heard the sound again, but this time a tortured whine accompanied it, like whatever animal was making the sound was in great pain and attempting to conceal it. Joel and Tommy launched into motion, their cautious uncertainty now replaced by an urgent awareness that, whatever was making the noise, they did not want to be in the same room as it. Together, the brothers moved in sync, seamlessly working their way around pipes to check every shadow and corner. Every few seconds, the anguished panting returned, echoing across the cement walls so that they could not tell if it was following them or fleeing them.

They had cleared half of the plant's large main floor when they approached the bottom of a set of metal steps that lead up to a steel grate walkway from which wastewater treatment workers had once been able to inspect the pipes from above. Joel quietly placed a boot on the bottom step, Tommy behind him.

Without warning, a shadow detached itself from the inky black underside of the steps. Tommy's eyes had adjusted to the darkness of the plant's interior, but he blinked in confusion at what looked like small translucent spots around the shadow's head. It was humanoid, but it moved with desperate agility as it launched itself at Joel's back. A Runner.

The animal tackled Joel before Joel even knew what was happening, slamming him against the metal steps with a clangor. Tommy instinctively swung his rifle to aim at the Runner, but with a growl he remembered his better judgment at the last second. He pulled the rifle up and charged the steps just as Joel managed to slam an elbow into the side of the creature's head, fighting to throw it off his back. Tommy swung hard with the butt of his rifle and heard a satisfying crack as it smashed against the Runner's head. The creature flailed sideways off of Joel and gave a tormented scream as it gained its feet again. It was clawing at its head, but it suddenly jumped and spread its legs as if preparing to pounce.

_K-thunk!_

Out of nowhere, the twin blades of Joel's modified shovel handle struck the infected in the temple. For a second, it remained standing, its scream still on its lips. Then it fell, ripping the still-embedded blades right off of the shovel handle as it crumpled. Joel stood above it, breathing hard but holding the now naked handle above the creature lest it should move again. The panting had stopped and silence swooped back around them.

"Joel! Tommy!" The sound of a hop-skip gait preceded Javier's arrival, as their friend moved awkwardly to swing the clunky medical boot at a slow jog. He brought with him light, swinging their solitary flashlight before him as he approached, shotgun in one hand. "Fuck!" he exclaimed as the flashlight's beam swept across the body of the dead infected.

"Never mind," Tommy said quickly, urgency in his voice. "Joel, did he get you? Did it bite you?"

"I don't know!" Joel replied. With frantic motion, he started feeling the back of his head and neck, prodding for signs of a bite.

"Jav, gimme the light!"

Javier tossed the flashlight to Tommy, who immediately pointed it at Joel's back. His brother was still fingering the bare skin at the nape of his neck, but it did not appear to have been broken in his struggle with the infected. No blood glistened in Joel's hair. His shirt was not torn, but Tommy lifted it up just to be sure. No bite marks.

Tommy breathed a sigh of relief. "Jesus Christ, Joel," he whispered in disbelief. "It was right fuckin' on top of you."

"I know." Joel's response was terse, but he sounded shaken and out of breath. Swallowing and clearing his throat, he took the flashlight from Tommy and pointed at the prostrate form of the infected. A look of uncertainty clouded his features.

"What the _hell_?"

Both Tommy and Javier followed the beam of light to where it illuminated the dead Runner. Only it did not look like a Runner. That it was one of the infected, there was no doubt, and maybe once it had been a Runner, but now? Tommy felt an involuntary shudder run the length of his spine and fought the bile that suddenly bubbled at the back of his throat.

The creature had skin like thick, rough parchment and ropes of blood-red veins stood out across its face and chest like licorice. It was dirty, but more than that, its skin had turned a mottled blotchy mess of bloodless white and gray-brown. Its eyes were completely red with a solid black pupil at the center. Or rather, its single eye was, for that was what made Tommy want to gag. Twisted, alien branches of something gray and fleshy had grown out from the creature's right eye and nose. Whatever it was had snaked its way to the top of the creature's head, snarling amongst thin, patchy hair and standing on end. The tips were pale pink, like mushrooms, only they seemed to be faintly glowing.

"Holy mother of God," Javier whispered, eyes wide as he stared.

Only belatedly did Tommy process the fact that this thing had once likely been a woman. Unlike the Runners, its former humanity was not readily obvious. It was an alien thing.

Making a face, Tommy slowly knelt next to the infected and leaned forward, watching it warily for any signs of life. When it did not move, Tommy reached towards its head and took hold of one of the scissor blades still bored into its temple. With a grunt, he jerked it free. Still moving like he was ready to spring back at a second's notice, Tommy slowly used the tip of the bloody blade to prod one of the gray, fleshy branches that stood out from the infected's head. It was pliable, but it sprang back to attention as soon as Tommy released the pressure from the blade.

Tommy rested his elbow on his knee and pressed the back of his wrist against his mouth and nose as he looked up at Joel. "I think...I think it's the fungus."

Joel made a disbelieving sound, lips parting. "In their brain? Christ."

"Not just in their brain anymore, apparently," Tommy said, standing.

"And not actin' like a Runner," Javier added, pointing at the creature. "Runners don't hide. They might be fast bastards, but at least y'can hear 'em comin'."

"Jav's right," Joel nodded. "This thing knew we were here. It's like it was...huntin' us or somethin'."

"Great," Tommy said, throwing the scissor blade back at the dead infected. "It ain't bad enough this fungus makes the infected into mindless killers? Now these sons-a-bitches gotta start stalkin' us? Fuck."

Shaking his head, Joel discarded his broken shovel handle and stooped over the infected. "C'mon Tommy, help me. I ain't sleepin' with this thing in here." Tommy knelt to help his brother.

They left the corpse outside in the storm, but it didn't matter in the end. None of them slept that night anyhow.

* * *

><p><em>October 16, 2014, Mid Afternoon<em>

"He gonna be okay?"

Tommy looked up at the question, glancing sideways at Javier, then up at Joel. Joel was keeping a good 30 feet ahead of them as they walked down the main street of a ghost town that vaguely resembled the old Huntersville quarantine zone, without the walls. Or the people, for that matter. A light autumn breeze buffeted across empty roads and boulevards.

Javier sauntered with a cigarette dangling from his lips, carrying his shotgun across his shoulders and resting his wrists over either end of the gun. Yet even Javier's expression turned uncertain as he stared at Joel's back.

Adjusting the rifle strap that he held at his right shoulder, Tommy could only shrug as he dropped his eyes to the road again. "Guess so," he muttered.

They walked side by side, boots kicking up the carpet of leaves that had scattered across the asphalt. Although Joel was not leaving them behind by any means, he seemed to prefer staying ahead of them on his own, ostensibly to scout out any trouble in advance. Javier had discarded the medical boot and seemed to be walking almost normally, though they still took fairly frequently breaks. Not like they were in a hurry to get anywhere anyhow.

"Yeah," Javier said vaguely, squinting against the sun. He pinched his cigarette between two fingers and coughed out a gust of smoke. "He always been like this?"

"What, the responsible one?"

Javier grinned at the implication.

"Not sure you'd of always called him responsible," Tommy said, keeping his voice low enough that Joel would not hear. "But realistic, yeah. Christ, we used t'get in these huge fights as kids. I hated him always playin' big brother, always lookin' after me. Still do sometimes, I guess."

"Always gonna be his job to look after your ass, hey?"

Tommy actually chuckled, grinning as he shook his head as Javier. "Guess so. We just don't always see things eye to eye. He never asks "why". Just gets on with things, no questions. Not me. I don't roll with the punches. I gotta figure out why someone's tryin' to punch me, maybe make 'em stop."

"So what's up with him now? Him keepin' to himself and all."

Tommy shrugged. "Honest...I think he doesn't know what to do. Just driftin' like this? Scares the hell out of him."

"Scares the hell outta me too. You remember those coupla folks who slit their wrists in Huntersville? Sometimes I figure they had it right."

"Might not always be like this, Jav."

Javier cast Tommy a mockingly patronizing glance, eyebrow cocked. "Aw Christ, a fuckin' optimist. Right, Tommy boy," he said, laughing, "cause a year from now I'm gonna be sittin' at fuckin' Mickey Dees laughin' about all this. Hey look, there's one now." He pointed dramatically towards the burned out shell of a former McDonald's in the distance, its golden arches standing proudly oblivious to the blackened ruin beneath it.

"Gotta aim for somethin', Jav."

"Little hard to aim for anythin' when everythin' on two legs is tryin' to kill ya, Tommy."

Tommy had no response to that and simply shook his head.

"You two wanna keep it down?" Ahead of them, Joel had apparently stopped at the sound of Javier's laughter and was looking back at them now, his posture at once tense and weary. Like Tommy, he carried a rifle over one shoulder, but he also had his pistol tucked into his waistband. From a loop on his belt, a new homemade club hung: a tire iron with a kitchen knife strapped to it.

"Yes, boss," Javier said with mock seriousness, touching two fingers to his brow in a lazy salute. They joined Joel where he stood at the center of the street, opposite the entrance to an old coffee shop on one side of the street and the wide sliding doors of a mechanic's garage on the other.

Joel made a face as if about to reprimand the two of them again, but a movement atop the roof of the coffee shop suddenly drew both Joel and Tommy's attention. Without hesitation, they both swung their rifles off of their shoulders and snapped eyes skyward to discern what had caught their eye. Javier followed suit a half-second later, his lazy stance vanishing as he knocked the stock of his shotgun back against his shoulder.

A man stood above the coffee shop, a black rifle trained down on the three of them as he looked over the low wall that rimmed the shop's rooftop. He had a shaggy black beard and hair like Joel, but he was built like a bear – not overweight, but broad and tall and full of muscle. He wore a black leather vest over red flannel.

"Wouldn't be so quick to draw if'n I were you," the man called down, voice laden with Mississippi flavor. He released one hand from his rifle to point behind Joel, Tommy, and Javier.

Stomach sinking, Tommy glanced sideways at Joel. Together, they both turned to look behind them. Half a dozen figures were now emerging from the empty garage and other buildings behind them. They turned back towards the coffee shop to find half again as many people slowly stepping out from the broken windows of abandoned businesses. There were men and women alike, all dressed rough for the road, all with guns trained on the three companions who stood utterly exposed in the middle of the street.

From the back of the coffee shop, a man emerged. Others made way for him as if he were someone of importance. He stepped out onto the street, the edges of his dark green camouflaged jacket pulled back with his hands in his trouser pockets. Tommy guessed he must be near sixty, a tall, round man with receding silver hair and a salt-and-pepper beard that turned full white at the chin. His skin had the over-wrinkled look of a man who has lost a great deal of weight in a very short time.

He stopped at the edge of the sidewalk in front of the coffee shop. "Why don't you gentlemen just put up those guns and we can have a conversation, hm?" A gentile Mississippi twang hinted at a man once of wealth and education.

Both Javier and Tommy instinctively looked to Joel, lips parted in wary question. Joel was careful to keep his expression straight, but there was no mistaking the thin sheen of sweat that had broken out across his brow as his eyes flickered to the guns pointing at them on either side of the man in the camouflaged jacket. He continued staring down the barrel of his rifle for several seconds, but he swallowed finally and blinked, slowly lowering his gun with a long, low sigh. Tommy and Javier followed suit. All three raised their hands, still holding their firearms in one hand but with them extended away from their bodies in a clear demonstration that they would not use them.

The man in the camouflaged jacket smiled and waved them towards him as he turned back to enter the coffee shop. "You can keep your guns for now," he called behind him. "Just don't make as if to use them, if you don't mind."

Joel cast a final wary glance at the people still pointing weapons at them before slowly starting after the man. Tommy felt an uneasy shiver begin to wriggle in the pit of his stomach.

The inside of the coffee shop had a damp, musky feel as if its large broken bay windows had exposed it to the elements for too long. Yet a corner of the place had been swept out and a table and chairs set up. A half-full bottle of Fireball whiskey sat at the center, beside four mismatched glasses.

Their "host" seated himself with his back against the wall and waved Joel, Tommy and Javier towards the open chairs. They cautiously removed their packs and eased into the seats, propping their guns against their knees.

"So, how long have you boys been on the road?" the man said, his voice a reedy rumble. He leaned forward and unscrewed the top of the cinnamon whiskey, pouring a splash into each glass. But when none of them answered his question, he looked up expectantly. "Well, can I at least get your names?"

"You first," Joel said warily. His eyes flickered again to the armed guards still standing at the door of the coffee shop.

The man smiled as if amused, then pushed a glass in each of their directions. None of them reached for the whiskey, but the man grabbed his own and leaned his chair back against the wall, balancing on two legs.

"Once upon a time, a name meant something," he said comfortably. "You give a man your name and he could do any number of things with it. Look you up in the white pages. Turn you into the police. Hell, he could google you and probably come up with half your life story. But these days, there ain't any white pages or police or internet. A name's mighty useful for just about one thing: distinguishing one man from another.

"But if it makes you feel more comfortable askin' me my name first, that's just fine by me. Name's Haney. Though most of the folks outside just call me Judge or Judge Haney, seein' as that's what I was, once upon a time."

Tommy looked more closely at the man now and noticed for the first time that, beneath his camouflaged jacket and fingerless gloves, he wore a dirty white dress shirt and a black suit vest. Whatever he had once been though, there was no mistaking the bulge of a shoulder holster under Judge Haney's left arm.

Joel glanced down at the glass of whiskey in front of him, then back up at their host. "Joel," he said finally, then nodded to the others. "Tommy. Javier."

"Pleasure," Haney said, smiling. "Now, how long you been on the road?"

"'Bout a month and a half."

"And before that?"

Joel looked at Tommy and Javier, his lips pressing together. "Quarantine zone in Texas, just outside Austin."

Haney swirled the cinnamon whiskey thoughtfully in his glass as he looked up at Joel from under silver brows. "Mind my askin' why you left?"

"...Infected. Overran the place." Joel rubbed a hand across the back of his head, a nervous gesture he had had since childhood. He might be good at keeping quiet, but Joel was a poor actor when it came to concealing his emotions.

The former judge nodded lightly, frowning as he considered the three of them with an appraising stare that had likely been honed by decades on the bench. In fact, he spent so long simply staring at them that Tommy had started to fidget uncomfortably by the time Haney spoke again.

"You come across a former quarantine zone to the west of here? Place called Moseby?"

Joel nodded. Moseby had been the town a few miles from the old wastewater treatment plant, but they had not entered it as planned. After they had heard gunfire from the direction of the town, they had chosen to skirt a wide path around the place.

"Most of the folks you saw outside were at Moseby," Judge Haney continued. "But I'm afraid to say Moseby didn't make it near as long as your zone. Fell to infected this last January. There _was_ a fellow tryin' to pull it back together a few months back, but my understanding is he was killed not too long ago. Too many folks fightin' for supplies left over at the old zone. After that, we figured we were better off on our own."

Joel nodded slowly, still eyeing Haney as if waiting for the gentile façade to fall away. When the judge lapsed once more into thoughtful silence, Joel leaned forward, placing his arms on the table. "You mind my askin' what you plan to do with us?"

Smiling, Haney absently scratched at his salt-and-pepper beard. "You mean do I intend to kill you?" he said lightly. "That's what it comes down to these days, isn't it. Well, you may be pleased to know that, no, I do not intend to kill you." He allowed his chair to tip forward again, all four chair legs scraping against the weather-worn coffee shop floor. He pointed outside.

"We're something of a motley crew here, gentlemen. That fellow up on the roof? Big guy with the black hair? Guess you'd call him my second-in-command. Name's Troy. I put him behind bars 15 years ago for manslaughter, for killin' a man during a drunken brawl at a bar not five miles from here. Why, Troy was one of the great examples of the success of the Mississippi penitentiary system. Man found God while he was behind bars. Came out of there a changed man. Just in time for the end of the world, matter of fact. Goes without saying, he lost God again mighty quick, but he's still a good man, in his own way."

"Okay," Joel said slowly, as if struggling to see the point of Haney's speech.

"What I mean to say, gentlemen, is this. All of us here got our own separate pasts, but we all got one thing in common now: we look after each other. There ain't a single man or woman out there who doesn't pull his or her own weight. We keep movin' and we watch each other's backs, and day-by-day, we manage to survive in this hellhole God's left us with."

Some of the uncomfortable wriggling in the pit of Tommy's stomach began to abate. A community of survivors outside the quarantine zones, working together to survive not because some military command structure ordered them too, but because they wanted to. Tommy felt a glimmer of hope begin to kindle in his chest.

"Now," Haney continued. "What if I were to offer you a place in our merry band?"

Tommy felt his lips part, but Joel frowned, eyes narrowing at Haney. "And if we're not interested?"

"A very good question," the former judge chuckled, waggling a finger at Joel. "I'd have thought less of you if you hadn't asked it. A man ought to know everything about a proposal before he decides whether to agree or not. Otherwise it's like puttin' extra salt and pepper on food you've never tasted. Allow me to explain a bit more about what we do here."

Haney's light-heartedness faded and his expression grew somber. He pushed his glass of whiskey away from him and set both hands on the table, as if he were a coach about to explain the next play to his team. "I've told you every man and woman here pulls their weight and I mean it. There's no person among us that lives off the hard work of others. I won't stand for it. But more than that, the people you see here are survivors. Most were survivors even before the world decided to end.

"The strong will inherit this new world of ours, gentlemen. They already are. We no longer have the luxury of supporting those unable to support themselves, even if they are good people, people we'd like to help and shelter. That's what the quarantine zones are tryin' to do, and for what? So all can starve together. So all can be overrun by infected together. That way of life is no longer sustainable."

Tommy frowned and slowly crossed his arms. The hope that had begun to kindle in his chest was fading. Admittedly, some small part of him felt like nodding at the logic of the judge's speech, but a deep instinct was gnawing at him, an inherent sense that this line of reasoning was _wrong_.

Judge Haney continued. "It's an uncomfortable notion for many, but there you have it. No two ways around it. I take no pride in sayin' such heartless things, but I'm not ashamed of it either. I've been on the road a good deal longer than you boys. That's simply a reality that we have had to accept in order to survive."

"I'm not sure I understand what you're tryin' to say, sir," Tommy said cautiously, before Joel could silence him with a look.

"I'm sayin' we survive by takin' what we need, even if it means takin' from others." Judge Haney's face was deadly serious, but he did not sound or look as if he meant to imply a threat with the revelation. His tone was almost matter-of-fact, though not without a hint of regret. "We rob people, gentlemen. There's no other way of sayin' it. We take what we need because we can, because we have the strength, firepower, and will to do so. It gives me no pleasure to say that. In another life, I put men and women behind bars for this very thing. But I refuse to let humanity sink into extinction because we did not have the stomach to do what we must in order to survive this world. You ask what happens if you decline my offer to join us? You'll be free to walk away, once we've taken what we need from your supplies.

"Now," he said, holding up his index finger and tapping the table with it. "I will tell you this. If you choose to leave, I will tell you that we are headed west. But south of here, about eight miles, is another town. I don't know what sort of supplies you'll find there or if there are infected about, but I can tell you that you can head that direction without fear of us followin' you."

Haney lapsed into silence, fixing the three of them with a long stare. Joel held his gaze for a second, then glanced first at Tommy and then at Javier. Both wore unreadable expressions.

"One final point," the judge continued. "I doubt you have lived as long as you have without learnin' to kill the infected, but if you have not discovered it yet, you will soon learn that other humans are often the greater threat. That being said, we do not kill indiscriminately. We do not kill at all if we can help it. Many in this world have no such qualms, but I personally have no desire to turn into a monster, gentlemen. We commit only those sins that are necessary to survive. Nothing less, nothing more."

Haney's chair scraped as he pushed back from the table and stood, gesturing for the others to do the same. "You're free to discuss this amongst yourselves. There's a large bathroom at the back here, should you prefer a closed door. I simply ask you leave your gear here while you confer."

Joel looked at Haney for a second and then nodded deftly. He removed his modified tire iron and set it across the table, then placed his pistol next to it. His pack and rifle he left leaning against the table's edge. Tommy and Javier did likewise. Together, they shuffled to the back of the coffee shop, where a large handicap-accessible bathroom with high frosted windows gave them some privacy.

Once the door had closed behind them and engulfed them in a dim gray light, Tommy breathed out sharply, as if he had been all but holding his breath.

"Well, boys?" Javier said, digging a hand through his thick black hair as he cocked an eyebrow at Joel and Tommy.

"Well what?" Tommy said abruptly. "There ain't anything to discuss, Jav. Tell me we're not seriously considerin' this."

"You said yourself, Tommy," Joel rumbled quietly. "Without our gear on the road, we're dead."

"What? Are you serious? We'll find other fuckin' gear, Joel. Hasn't yet been a problem findin' what we need. Besides, if you remember so well, that's what I said to the _last_ people who tried robbin' us. You sayin' you want us to sign up to do the same to others?"

Joel's expression grew angry and sharp irritation entered his voice. "I ain't said one way or the other, Tommy."

"Then what are you sayin'? Better to rob others than lose our gear to these fuckin' cowboys?"

"I'm sayin' we ain't got the luxury of ignorin' an option if it's there."

"Luxury?" Tommy snorted. "Jesus Christ, Joel. Don't start usin' fancy words just cause some jumped up ex-judge put 'em in your mouth. It ain't a luxury to choose not to prey on the weak. It's just _right_."

Joel's eyes flashed and he suddenly shoved Tommy in the chest, driving his brother back against the bathroom's tile wall. "I _said_ I ain't said one way or the other, Tommy."

"Better start makin' up your mind then, big brother," Tommy said, not quite successfully keeping the sneer out of his voice. "I doubt they're exactly gonna give us a coupla days to think it out."

"Then let's try it." Both Joel and Tommy looked at Javier, apparently having forgotten he was in the room with them. He sounded unusually serious. "Ain't anybody sayin' we gotta stay forever, boys. But if it's this or back out there on our own, I'll stick to numbers. Don't get me wrong, boys. I can't never repay you for lookin' after me when my foot got all screwed to hell, but it's been a lonely fuckin' few months. Three guys out here on our own? How long before we run into a pack of fuckin' Runners and that's it?" He shook his head. "I won't leave you, boys. But I'm sayin' I think we give this a go."

All three were silent for a time, considering the weight of Javier's words. An uncomfortable sense of dread clenched at Tommy's stomach, but he had difficulty deciding whether it was dread at the prospect of joining Judge Haney's crew or dread at the thought of returning again to their long, perilous road to nowhere.

"All right," Joel said quietly, backing away from where he had crowded his brother against the wall, but nonetheless watching Tommy's reaction.

"All right?" Tommy said, disbelief wrinkling his brow. "That's it? That's all it takes to make you agree to robbin' other people, just because you _can_?"

In a snap, Joel's temper flared again and he angrily grabbed Tommy by the collar. "Goddamnit, Tommy! You think I like sayin' it?" he growled. "Grow up, boy. This is the world we live in."

"Listen," Javier interjected, placing a hand on Joel's shoulder, but looking at Tommy. "For all we know, they get most of their gear from scavengin'. We've found plenty that way, right? Maybe they don't even need to lift it off other folks most of the time."

Tommy snorted, practically ignoring Javier as he scowled at Joel. "Are you gonna do this, Joel? Is it worth that much to you that you'd join them over your brother?"

"Are you gonna make me choose?"

Tense silence settled taut over the bathroom for several seconds as both brothers fixed each other with hard glares, their breathing deep and sharp with emotion. Tommy felt the heat of Joel's hand against his collarbone as he held Joel's angry stare. He imagined what it would be like to return to the road, just the three of them, knowing there was a community of survivors they might have joined, even if that community's means of survival was morally questionable. But more than that, he imagined what it would be like to return to the road, utterly alone in a broken world.

The tension in Tommy's face slowly loosened. The anger remained, but the staring contest was lost. Tommy let his eyes slide down a fraction, then shook his head. He could not bring himself to admit his decision aloud. Joel released him.

"C'mon then," he growled without delay, yanking open the bathroom door.

Neither their gear nor Judge Haney had moved from the table when they reentered the main coffee shop floor. Haney had reseated himself and appeared to have been studying the gently swirling whiskey in his glass, but he smiled and stood again as they neared. He clinked his glass back down on the table.

"Well," he said, lifting silver eyebrows. "Have we a decision?"

Without ceremony, Joel nodded and said simply, "We'll join."

Haney smiled broadly and nodded back. "I'm glad to hear it, Joel. Not many folks are extended this invitation, so I'm mighty glad I judged you boys right. Now, before we shake on it." He tipped his head forward, like a father explaining the house rules to his children.

"This group, we're family. We look after each other. You're each free to do as you like, so long as you don't do it to the detriment of one of the family. This ain't a warnin' or a threat, just fair notice. If you cross one of us, we will cross you. But—" he held up a finger "—by the same law, if another family member crosses you, we will cross them. Is that acceptable to you?"

Joel considered a moment, then nodded.

"Then shake on it."

Judge Haney extended one of his fingerless gloves towards Joel. Pointedly not looking at Tommy, Joel caught the judge's hand and shook it firmly.

* * *

><p><strong>A big thank you to all my reviewers! I'm far enough into this story now that I'm frantically writing because <em>I<em> want to know what happens next, but the reviews are a big boost when real life threatens to leave me with too little time or sleep to write on any given day. Remember to Follow the story for update alerts. Tune in next time to find out what happens when someone in the Judge's family breaks the cardinal rule...**


	7. Chapter 7 - The Family

Chapter 7

_Late Summer 2015, Noon_

It floated like cotton in the wind. In the grubby yellow beams of their flashlights, it looked like thick dust disturbed after centuries of lying untouched. Through the round eye holes of his gas mask, Tommy felt like he was watching a grainy silent movie. Or almost silent. Even over the mechanical suck and release of their gas masks, Tommy could hear the creaking croak of the long stems releasing spores into the air.

Tommy thought it sounded like choking.

Even if there had been no threat of lurking infected, Tommy would never get used to these dark tombs with their alien array of bright fungal growths clinging to the walls and floors. The stuff grew incredibly fast if the body of a dead infected was in the area. It thrived in the dark, abandoned places of the world, which meant pretty near anywhere. The derelict shopping mall through which they were now making their way was a perfect breeding ground.

"There." Troy's voice was muffled by his gas mask, but he stood beside Tommy and was pointing his flashlight at a shop window that read _Francini & Sons, Jewelers_ in elaborate gold script. Beneath the window, a prostrate form barely identifiable as once human was crumpled in a heap. The cordyceps had grown over the corpse and up the length of the window. Dry brown splatter across the mall's once gray floor indicated the infected had likely been shot before it died.

"Let's get on," Joel said from Tommy's other side, voice likewise obscured by a rubber gas mask. Troy nodded. In the gloom, Troy almost looked Joel, save for the distinctive black leather vest he wore, with its flaming cutlass emblazoned across the back, beneath the name _Steelbrands_. A remnant of the ex-biker's former life.

The area of the mall they were moving through was underground and had once likely been lit by a multitude of bright fluorescent lights. It was far more eerie than the floor above, where natural light from many skylights streamed down in stark contrast to the utter darkness here below, but they were also finding this underground area had been less picked over by other scavengers. Their packs were heavy with supplies: first aid kits, spare clothes, rags and towels, tape, scissors, and other hardware. They had even lifted a few bottles of liquor from a beer and wine shop. They had only one more stop, which was at this end of the mall, according to an old building map.

"Oho, hell yes, jackpot!"

The exclamation came from Hank, the fourth and final member of their scavenging party. He was grinning at the sight of a large shop with a tall green sign above it that read _Greene Optical_.

The other three looked at each other and chuckled through their masks as Hank led the way towards the store. Hank was forty-something, lean, and wiry. His hair was dirty blond and his face lined and weathered by the years he had spent in house construction. But despite his obvious eagerness, he was no fool. He paused at the store's entrance and held his flashlight alongside his pump-action shotgun, surveying the store for any signs of danger.

"All right then," Hank said, once he was satisfied the place was empty.

Joel, Troy, and Tommy all remained at the entrance of the optical shop as Hank entered and made his way to the back, behind the counter where the store had once kept small metal boxes with pairs of glasses ordered by customers and awaiting pick-up. As Hank knelt behind the counter, they heard him begin muttering to himself.

"No...No...No...Mm, close enough...No...No...Ah! Yes! Sunglasses, no less. Thank _God_, 'bout goddamn time."

By the time he emerged from the back of the shop again, he was carrying four hard-backed glasses cases, the kind that could be dropped or banged around without breaking their contents. Two such cases already bulged from two of Hank's coat pockets and Tommy knew Hank stored more in his pack and back at the group's main camp.

"Four sets, will ya look at that," he said proudly as he rejoined their party. He adjusted the glasses that he had awkwardly slid over the top of his gas mask so that he could halfway see through the mask's round eyeholes. "I tell ya one thing, boys. It ain't gonna—"

"—be broken glasses that kill you," Troy rumbled off in a bored voice, as if reciting by rote. "Yeah, we know, Hank. Can we go now?"

Hank nodded and pocketed his new-found treasures. Perhaps more than anything else Tommy had learned after nearly a year on the road, it was that their new reality was not kind to those with physical disabilities. Broken bones, impaired vision, debilitating illnesses. All could mean death. In the year that he had known him, Tommy had watched Hank break no fewer than six sets of glasses, whether while frantically fleeing the infected or simply losing his balance when vaulting over a collapsed brick wall. In seconds, he would be whipping out another set. Even if he was hyper-vigilant in seeking out as many replacements as he could lay hands on, not a one of their company ever gave him grief for it.

The four of them made their way back through the mall towards the escalator they had used to descend to the lower floor. Their flashlights swept the darkness around them as they avoided the deepest shadows, ever wary of the spore-filled tomb through which they moved. At the escalator, a sharp angle of sunlight from above cut through the blackness of the underground floor and lit their way as they trudged up the motionless metal steps. Once back at the dimly-lit floor above, they switched off their flashlights, though their guns they kept at the ready. No spores appeared to float on this upper level, but they did not risk removing their masks.

Even back amidst natural light, Tommy felt uncomfortable as they started back through the empty mall, headed for the western entrance from which they had originally come. Something in the vast emptiness of the abandoned shopping center made Tommy's skin crawl. He glanced sideways at Joel as they walked. The gas mask obscured Joel's face, but Tommy suspected it carried the same unreadable expression he habitually wore these days. It wasn't that Joel didn't talk. He did. In fact, Joel and Troy seemed to have struck a fast friendship and frequently got to chatting about nothing in particular. But Joel was guarded. Whatever he thought or felt about a situation, he rarely let it be known. If he was bothered by the echoing skeleton of dead consumerism through which they walked, he would say nothing of it.

And so Tommy said nothing of it either, even as he fought the urge to look behind him for the ghosts that lingered in this place.

"Ho, what's that?" Troy said abruptly, squinting through the dim light at an abandoned sporting goods storefront.

Joel broke away from the group and flipped on his flashlight, pointing it towards the interior of the store. The other three followed him, guns held aloft. The flashlight beam skimmed past sports jersey displays and racks of baseball bats before finally landing on a pile of trash on the floor at the center of the store. As they neared and their eyes adjusted to the gloom, it became clear that the pile was not garbage, but charred wood, fragments of several wooden baseball bats. The smell of smoke still lingered in the air.

"Thought I smelled smoke," Troy nodded, as if confirming a suspicion. "Hell, that ain't that old."

"Coupla hours, maybe," Joel said, kneeling at the edge of the extinguished fire. He pointed farther into the store, where they could see the remnants of two more dead fires. "There's more."

Tommy moved closer, brow creasing. "Left this mornin'?"

"That'd be my guess," Troy said.

Hank cast a glance back out into the main part of the mall onto which the store's front opened. He looked back at the fire. "Betcha they're still in the city. And unless they got a reason to be movin' quick, they can't've gotten far if they're just pickin' over places like this."

Troy nodded as he tapped Joel's shoulder to prompt Joel to stand again. "Let's get a move on. Judge'll wanna hear about this."

"We got a whole mall to get what we need," Tommy said, glad that the gas mask hid the annoyed look he felt spreading across his face. "What do we need to track down these people for?"

But Troy only shrugged, neither agreeing with Tommy nor reprimanding him for a lack of willingness.

"We'll let Judge make that call."

* * *

><p><em>Later that Day, Mid-Afternoon<em>

"Holding! Holding! Fuckin' tell me someone saw that!"

"You're so full of shit, Jav!"

"That's a fuckin' 10-yard penalty, y'white trash hick!"

"Objection, y'Honor! Ain't no call for name-callin'!"

"Sustained, for unsportsmanlike conduct. And you've got a 10-yard penalty for holdin', Jimmy."

The miniature football field erupted in noise as half of the players broke out in angry objection and the other half began cackling with victory. The half dozen players on either side began pushing at one another and wrestling in the middle of the gravel pit in which the game of touch football had been taking place. Men and women alike grabbed at clothing, hair, anything they could get a hold of, while hurling a cacophony of colorful insults at each other. Eventually, exhausted laughter began to replace the lighthearted abuse and rowdiness being thrown about.

"All right, boys and girls. Let's pipe down. Look who's back."

Judge Haney was standing midway up one of the towering gravel piles that filled the pit, holding his hands aloft to quiet those who had been roughhousing below. But he was also gesturing towards Tommy, Joel, Troy, and Hank, whose return to the gravel pit had been unnoticed during the game's dispute. They had been watching the brawl with crossed arms and amused smiles.

"JT! Y'missed all the fun, boys." Javier emerged from the crowd of football players with a wide grin, cramming his greasy ball cap over tousled black hair before pulling Joel and Tommy into a hug. He laughed and winked. "Jimmy's deep affection for yours truly got the better of him and he just _had_ to get hold of me, but Judge said no hanky panky til we're both old enough to drive, so I had to tell the boy no."

Lacing his fingers together, Javier puckered his lips and dramatically batted his eyelashes in the direction of a short young man with freckles and brown hair.

Jimmy threw the dusty football at Javier's face.

"All right, all right. Knock it off, you lot," Haney called down from his perch above the field as Javier caught the ball and started cackling again. The former judge began descending the gravel pile, shaking his head and smiling. By the time he had slid his way to the bottom, those gathered below had quieted.

He came to a stop before Troy, who stood at the head of the group that had returned from the mall. Despite their dissimilar backgrounds, Troy was undoubtedly Haney's right-hand man, fiercely loyal to the judge who had once put him behind bars. "So?" Haney asked. "Were you right about the mall?"

Troy nodded and hefted off the pack he had been carrying over one shoulder. "It had a lower floor. Crawlin' in spores, but ain't hardly been touched by anyone."

"Infected?"

"Some. Heard a few at the backs of a coupla stores, but they're just sitttin' back there moanin' to 'emselves. Didn't make enough noise to bother 'em."

Judge Haney gave a satisfied nod, then lifted his silver brows as if preparing for the big question. He tipped his head forward. "Food and water?"

None of them immediately answered. The four of them looked at each other, as if hesitant to report bad news to dad. Finally, Joel shook his head, earning a disappointed look from Haney.

"But there was somebody camped in one of the stores," Joel added. "Probably left this mornin' sometime. Good size group, I reckon. Had three fires goin' whenever they were there."

That wiped some of the disappointment from Haney's expression and he looked to the others for confirmation. Troy and Hank both nodded, as did Tommy a second later, though his own expression was subdued.

"Trackable?" Haney asked.

"Gotta be at least a dozen folks with that many fires," Hank offered, nodding. "They gonna leave some sign of their passin'."

"Judge," Tommy said quietly, speaking up for the first time. "We got that whole mall to ourselves. No way we could find everything with four guys'n a coupla hours. Might well be food or water somewhere we didn't see today. Why risk trackin' down a group that size when we could spend a coupla days pickin' over that mall?"

"We found the food court, Tommy," Joel grumbled, only halfway looking up at Haney, as if embarrassed by Tommy's decision to protest. "Everythin' not gone bad has already been taken by somebody else."

"And other people're more likely to be carryin' food and water on 'em," Troy added. As usual, he sounded neither one way or the other about it. Troy stated facts, not arguments.

Haney gave an apologetic smile and reached out to squeeze Tommy's shoulder. "They're right, Tommy," he said quietly, conciliatory. "There'll be plenty of time to search the mall, but it ain't the kind of place we can expect to find much in the way of food or water. That's got t'be our priority." He straightened and let go of Tommy, who frowned and stifled a sigh as he cast his eyes downward. Haney looked up at the others assembled around them and raised his voice.

"I need ten volunteers, ladies and gentlemen! Pack t'be gone a day at least. We leave in fifteen minutes!"

* * *

><p><em>Later that Day, Early Evening<em>

Joel, Troy, and Javier were walking ahead of the party, chatting about something Tommy could only guess at. Although Javier's voice carried when he wanted to be paid attention to, both Joel and Troy had deep, slow voices that made overhearing them more difficult. Every now and again, Javier would make some expansive gesture and Troy would chuckle while Joel gave a small smile. It was nice to see his brother smile, at least, even if it remained a guarded expression.

"I notice you two don't talk much these days."

Tommy felt his lips part in surprise as he looked over his shoulder. Judge Haney had come up behind him as they walked and was nodding ahead, as if having noticed Tommy watching the three men at the front of their group.

"Joel and you, I mean," he clarified. The appraising frown he wore was familiar. The judge noticed things that others did not.

"Not much to talk about," Tommy shrugged, gaze sinking. Their party was walking down the dusty, broken street of a city somewhere deep in south Georgia. Even before the end of the world, the city had seen far better days.

Haney drew level with Tommy so he could keep his voice low. "Oh, I don't know about that," he rumbled. "I've always found folks can find _somethin'_ to talk about, if they really want to."

"We ain't all born lawyers, Judge."

Haney glanced sidelong at Tommy and began chuckling when he saw the smirk that teased the corners of Tommy's mouth. "Naw, I guess not," he grinned, shaking his head. But the former judge grew contemplative again after a few seconds as he absently scratched his beard where it turned full white at the chin. "Still," he continued. "A judge makes his livin' by noticin' things. You figure out what a man is thinkin' by what he says or doesn't say, or how he acts or doesn't act."

Tommy did not immediately reply. But he could imagine what Haney had noticed, or not noticed. Tommy had not settled into the judge's so-called family in the same way that Joel had. Part of him respected the firm hand that Haney used to keep things in check, but another part of him would never be comfortable with the way they took what they needed from others they met upon the road. But Joel? Like everything else, if it bothered him, he did not say so.

"You don't need to worry about me, Judge," Tommy finally said, clearing his throat. "Joel'n I don't always see eye to eye, but I'll follow his lead." Even after nearly a year in the former judge's company, Tommy still had difficulty determining Haney's true character. Sometimes he felt like Haney was only showing a fatherly interest in the wellbeing of his family, but a part of Tommy also worried that the judge questioned Tommy's dedication to that family.

Although Haney nodded slowly, he also frowned in thought. He adjusted the rifle strap he had looped over one shoulder. "I appreciate that, Tommy," he mumbled, drifting into silence. Eventually, however, he pursed his lips as if coming to a decision.

"Even so, I also appreciate your speakin' up today."

Eyes narrowing, Tommy looked at Haney in question. The judge nodded.

"I know you're not always comfortable with what we do, Tommy. I would hope none in this family is. But some – Troy, your brother, Hank – some adjust better than others. That adaptability is vital to our survival."

Pursing his lips again, Haney looked down at one of his hands, absently rubbing at some of the grit that had settled into the lines that crisscrossed his open palm. "But there must be rules," he rumbled in his low Mississippi twang. "There must be limits. Lines we won't cross. If humanity needs men like Troy and Joel to survive, then it equally needs men like us in order to thrive. Society was once built upon rules. The rule of law, for one. The lines we once refused to cross may now have been pushed back some, but we must never forget they exist."

Tommy was silent as the judge spoke, but he caught himself stealing glances at Haney as they walked. Whether it was his former profession or simply his nature, Haney had a reputation amongst their company for his long-winded philosophizing. He rarely spoke of his former life other than to mention his judicial service – Tommy did not even know if Haney had ever been married or had children – but he could speak for hours about the vagaries of human nature.

"Damn, Judge," Tommy chuckled quietly. "Y'sound like you've got plans to rebuild all this one day."

"And why not?" The older man's brows were lifted in a light-hearted manner, but his question was serious.

"Don't need t'convince me, Judge. But every time I start talkin' like that, Joel acts like I'm an idiot."

"We cannot save everyone," Haney said, more firmly now as he shook his head. "To believe we can is indeed naïve. But we _can_ save some. This family, for a start. And to do that, we must recognize certain limits. Survival cannot be at any cost. Any individual willin' to do anything in order to survive is willin' to sacrifice the safety of this family, if need be. That is unacceptable. That is a limit we set upon ourselves. That group of teenagers that escaped us last week? I refused to order others to shoot them in the backs as they fled. That is a limit we set upon ourselves. We must never stop askin' where we draw our lines."

"Watch out, boys. Judge is on a rant!" Javier had turned back to look at Tommy and Haney and he was grinning at them with the same sense of irreverence that he demonstrated in most every situation. Tommy snorted, but Haney lightly chuckled and wagged a finger at Javier.

"I might make an exception for you, Javier. Humanity might well be better off without that mouth of yours – _my_ life at least would be much improved!"

Others around them began chortling at the look of dramatic indignation that fell across Javier's face as he struck a wounded pose. But the laughter was short-lived. Suddenly, from the gaping black mouth of a bank's broken glass storefront came the howl of infected.

Many months on the road had trained the instincts of this grim band of survivors. Where merriment had existed a moment before, suddenly there was deadly serious action. Guns swung off of shoulders and blades were whipped out from homemade sheaths. Half a dozen barrels pointed at the abandoned bank, while the other half dozen searched the area behind the party for any surprises lurking there. Tommy knew his pulse has quickened, but this instant group reaction to the tell-tale sounds of infected had become instinct, no longer filled with the creeping panic of impending action. Whatever opinions Tommy had about how this family of Haney's treated other humans, Tommy wanted no one else by his side when it came to taking on the infected.

And here they came. Three of them came scrabbling out of the bank's interior, grabbing at each other in competition to reach the party of humans that stood waiting for them. No one fired. Instead, Joel, Troy, Hank, and a woman named Annie darted forward and flanked the Runners are they charged. Each wielded long weapons – a baseball bat, a pipe, a cane – with blades attached to the end. Oblivious, the Runners flew wildly at their attackers, only to meet their end in the form of duct tape and kitchen knives. All in all, they were dispatched with impressive, practiced speed.

But they were not alone.

"Stalker!" someone yelled suddenly.

From the dark sunken steps of an outdoor basement door came lunging infected with the characteristic fleshy growths sprouting from their eyes and ears. They moved with terrifying speed. Javier was closest and he had just time enough to whirl around before they reached him. He held a hunting knife, but clutched the barrel of his shotgun around the knife's handle. With no time to release the gun and drive the blade at the charging infected, Javier instead swung the shotgun's fat barrel up and pulled the trigger.

Bone and blood exploded into the air as the Stalker's head, inches from the gun's tip, disintegrated. The sound of the discharging weapon was deafening, ricocheting off the fronts of the buildings all around the party of hunters. But there was no time to curse the noise, for three more Stalkers followed the one that Javier had killed. The air suddenly rang with gunfire.

Movement to Tommy's right caught his attention and he turned, eyes widening. "Judge! Joel! Pack of 'em!" He pointed and others swung round to look now, dread likewise leaping across their faces. Dozens of infected were rounding the corner of a street that intersected the one on which their party had been traveling. The Runners moved more slowly at first, arms curling as they sought to locate the source of the noise that had attracted them. But once they spotted the group of humans hunkered at the center of the street, their cries turned desperately, chaotically, terrifyingly hungry.

"Out!" Judge Haney suddenly bellowed, galvanizing the group into action. Sixty he might be, but Haney was grabbing shoulders and twisting men and woman around with frantic speed, pushing them ahead of him to force them to flee the infected. "Move! Move! Move!"

Tommy felt iron fingers close around his shoulder and spun to find Joel looking down at him. Relief flooded Tommy's gut. Although the brothers seemed to speak little these days, at even the slightest trouble, Tommy could still count on Joel to be at his side in seconds.

"Run, Tommy!" Joel growled urgently, pulling Tommy with him as they began to sprint in the opposite direction of the rushing infected.

As they ran, Tommy vaguely noted that their party was becoming strung out. They were efficient in dealing with small groups of infected, in operating as a single, cohesive unit. But packs were different. No amount of instinct or training or sheer guts could prepare a person for the blind panic that accompanied any encounter with a pack of Runners. Even the most confident and adept fighter among them could do little more than flee such a wave of terror.

And flee they did. Tommy kept Joel in his peripheral vision as they pounded across the asphalt, but Tommy also caught glimpses of Haney, Troy, Hank, and others. Haney was trailing the rest of them, being a slower runner and having pushed many of his people ahead of him rather than instantly turning to fly. But Troy remained steadfastly at the older man's side, one hand hooked under Haney's elbow while the other pointed a pistol at the pursuing infected, emptying a double mag into their front ranks with surprisingly composure.

The mall campers their party had been hunting were forgotten. All that mattered now was escaping the animals fast closing on them. Ahead, Tommy saw Hank sprinting for what had once been a fire station. The building was fronted by three metal roll-up doors, each painted a dull red and set with thin windows high above the street. If they could get one of the doors open, the station might just provide shelter.

Hank dove for the bottom of the middle door and began prying to pull it up. Tommy and Joel were still a hundred feet from him, but Tommy could see him hauling with all of his weight to budge the door. Tommy felt the blood pounding in his ears as his boots slapped the pavement, but relief leapt into his chest as Hank suddenly stumbled back a step, briefly unbalanced as the door came lose after two years of disuse.

As Joel and Tommy neared the fire station, Hank began spitting curses as he strained to keep the heavy metal door rolled up a few feet. Others of their party were stumbling towards the station in ones and twos, each diving under the door and scuttling into the safety of the fire engine garage. Someone held the door as Hank ducked underneath so that he was inside the garage, but in a second, Hank had resumed his grip on the underside of the door.

Joel and Tommy skidded to a halt in front of the open garage and looked behind them. Half of their group were still running towards them, but so far all seemed to be alive.

"Are they comin'? Are they comin'?" came Hank's urgent, muffled voice from within the station. Standing outside, Tommy could only see Hank's legs from the knee down, but he could see Hank's knuckles turning white where he held the door.

"Keep holdin', Hank," Joel yelled above the din of the approaching infected. "They're comin'! C'mon, people!" He was waving anxiously. In came the woman Annie and two others behind her. Next was Troy and Judge Haney, the judge's face red but grim as he dropped to his knees and skittered into the station.

Only Javier remained.

"_Shhit_," Joel hissed out through clenched teeth. "Tommy, get inside. It's gonna be close."

He was right. Javier was not a sprinter and, for whatever reason, he had not fled as quickly as the others in their party. He was running flat out for the station, cursing a storm and risking not a single glance back at the wave of Runners closing barely 30 feet behind him.

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" he was bellowing over and over.

Tommy ducked under the garage door and Joel followed a second later, but both remained on their hands and knees, watching under the open door and waving violently as they urged their friend on.

"C'mon, Jav! C'mon! You're gonna make it!"

"Move your fuckin' ass, Jav!"

Hank was shifting uncomfortably as they yelled, looking frantically at the two brothers since he could not see the approach of either Javier or the infected from where he stood holding the garage door. But he could hear the Runners. Their crazed howling was growing closer in leaps and bounds.

"Is he fuckin' here yet?" Hank demanded, voice rising with fear as the sound of the approaching infected filled the echoing interior of the garage. "Jesus fuckin' Christ. Jesus Christ, oh fuck."

"He's gonna make it!" Joel growled up at Hank, still waving under the door at Javier outside. "He's gonna be close, but goddamnit he's gonna make it! Soon as he's in, you drop it! Christ, Jav, move it!"

Tommy was pounding his fist against the cement floor of the garage, yelling. He could see that Javier's face was red and contorted, devoid of any of his usual wicked humor as he raced for the open garage door. "Almost there, Jav! You're gonna make it!" Tommy hollered. Others behind him had hit their hands and knees too and were shouting to hasten Javier's flight.

"Goddamnit!" Hank screamed over the clamor, still holding the door. "What's takin' him so fuckin' long! They're almost fuckin' here, _I can hear 'em!_"

"Shuddup, Hank!" Joel roared. "Jav, c'mon—"

The door slammed shut.

Tommy blinked. Instantly, the howling outside was muffled to near silence. The yelling inside the garage stopped.

Tommy blinked again, mouth hanging open in confusion as he stared at the metal now blocking his view of his friend outside. His mind was not processing what had just happened.

"No," he heard Joel whisper in disbelief beside him. "No," his brother said again, louder this time.

"No, no, no, no, no. No! No! No!" Joel's voice has crescendoed to a shout, uncontrolled and packed with fury. He leapt to his feet, staring at the unfeeling metal door as his fingers grappled to find purchase so he could pull it up again. Tommy's brain kicked into action and he too stumbled to a stand to help his brother.

Hank was backing away from the door that he had dropped, a slow look of horror spreading across his face. He was shaking his head and breathlessly repeating, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." For now, Tommy and Joel ignored him.

Suddenly, a metallic thud shuddered against the door, briefly shocking Tommy and Joel into inaction as they stared at the door.

"What the _fuck?_" Javier's angry voice shouted outside, muffled by the door that he now beat against.

Eyes wide, Tommy and Joel sprang forward again to lift the door, but half a second later it shuddered again. Shuddered under the weight of dozens of bodies being thrown against it.

Screaming. Outside, Javier was screaming.

Tommy felt arms wrap around his shoulders and close over his chest. He was being pulled back away from the garage door. Shock, fury, and exhaustion hit him all at once and it was suddenly as if all sound had gone out of the world. A dull ringing filled his head. His heart beat like a sledgehammer against his chest.

"Stop, Tommy, stop." He felt Haney's whisper close by his ear. "Stop. You open that door now, you'll kill every one of us."

The ringing continued to fill his head and Tommy felt the energy drain out of his struggling limbs. The screaming outside continued.

Tears pricking his vision, Tommy put his hands over his ears and closed his eyes tight.

* * *

><p>Hours passed.<p>

The frenzied howling of the infected outside the fire station eventually faded to tortured moans. As the light in the sky turned russet orange and the shadows lengthened across the dusty fire engines that filled the garage, the moans finally faded to silence as the creatures outside stumbled away to find new prey.

Tommy and Joel sat side by side on the floor, their backs against one of the brick walls and their knees drawn up to their chests. Tommy's face felt dead as he continued staring at the same spot he had been staring at for hours. An absurd part of him was grateful that the infected had taken so long to move on, grateful for the undisturbed hours during which the others had left Joel and him alone.

Boots scraped as a pair of legs came to stand in from Tommy.

"Come on, boys," Haney said as he crouched in front of the two brothers. He looked older than normal, paler and more tired, but his rumbling voice was oddly grounding. Tommy blinked and looked up.

"Come on," Haney repeated.

Tommy felt himself lifted up under both shoulders and did not fight it. When he turned to look beside him, he found Joel likewise standing. His brother's expression was not as glassy or subdued as Tommy suspected his own was, but Joel was scowling in deep silence.

The squeal of metal echoed through the garage as several others began lifting the metal rolling door through which they had all entered hours ago. Tommy began shuffling towards it.

When he ducked under the door and emerged into the dusky light of the setting sun, he was met by an awful scene. Still-drying blood curled across the pavement in erratic patterns, thrown there during Javier's struggle to escape. As for Javier himself, his body lay contorted several feet away from the station door, clothing and skin torn by an unknowable number of bites. There was no doubt that the irreverent comedian rebel that Tommy had called friend was dead.

Moving stiffly, as if he were twenty years older, Joel knelt beside Javier's body, barely blinking as he stared at the brutality that had been wrought. His breathing was slow and deep, as if he had to carefully form each breath.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Tommy noticed Hank for the first time in a long while. He was standing several feet away from Javier, but he jerked as if having been slapped when he saw Tommy looking over at him. "I'm sorry," he repeated. "Joel, Tommy, I...I don't...They were nearly on top of us...I had to...I could hear 'em...I'm sorry...They were nearly..."

Hank's stuttering faltered into silence as Joel suddenly looked up at him with narrowed eyes. When he spoke, Joel's voice sounded like rocks grated over asphalt.

"You mean you dropped it on purpose?"

Hank froze. So did everyone else around them. Tommy suddenly felt his cheeks warm with anger.

"I-I mean...I-I don't..." Hank stammered, starting to back away as Joel lurched abruptly to his feet. Steel glinted in his eyes.

"I told you he would make it," he said quietly, like a bull about to charge. "I told you he would make it."

"Y-You couldn't know that. H-He just...I-I could hear 'em comin', Joel. I could _hear_ 'em."

"I _told_ you he would make it."

Tommy's lips parted as he watched Joel's arm move slowly. Hank's eyes began to widen as he raised his hands in front of him. "Joel," Hank said. "J-Joel. Joel. It's me, Joel."

Joel was reaching for the pistol tucked into his belt.

Something sickening began to twist in the pit of Tommy's stomach and he started to take a step forward towards his brother, but he stopped at the touch of a hand upon his shoulder. He turned to see Haney standing beside him, only Haney was not looking at him. The judge was looking at Hank, his face hardened by an unforgiving glare that mixed betrayal with grim purpose.

Joel pulled the pistol from his belt.

"J-J-Joel," Hank stuttered, disbelieving, breath coming rapidly. "J-Joel, wait. J-Judge. J-Judge, y-you're not gonna let 'im do this?"

"I saw what happened," Haney answered coldly. "He would have made it. You betrayed this family, Hank. You betrayed it to save yourself."

Hank's lips moved wordlessly, eyes wide.

Joel's jaw was clenched as he lifted the pistol. He pulled back the hammer.

"_I told you he would make it._"

Two shots cracked across the sky.

As the ringing began to thrum through Tommy's head again, he heard Troy behind him contemptuously mutter, "Traitor was right. Wasn't broken glasses that killed him."

* * *

><p><strong>A heavy chapter to write and likely to read, but I hope you enjoyed it. I've put a lot of thought into making Joel's transition from doting father to brutal veteran feel as natural as possible and I think that evolution was the result of a long, slippery slope. Gradually pushing those lines that Judge Haney is so mindful of back further and further. As I write, I certainly feel like I'm beginning to understand how someone like Joel - hell, how any one of us - could become the way he is when we meet him in TLoU.<strong>

**I have my one and only summer exam a week from Monday, so anticipate my next update to be somewhat delayed, probably until the first week of August. As usual, please Review and Follow to receive an alert when I next update. Thank you, all!**


	8. Chapter 8 - Milestones

Chapter 8

_Early Spring 2016, Dusk_

It felt like an old war movie. Loose grit and rock slid under Tommy's boots as he ran, putting on short bursts of speed as he made his way from cover to cover, always crouching, listening, watching. Ahead of him, Joel moved with the gruff assurance of a commanding officer, surprisingly agile and quick despite his size.

It was Matt Damon following Tom Hanks through the rubble of a ruined French town, silently sprinting from the shadow of one building to another as the stomp and grind of Nazi soldiers and tanks grew closer. Ahead, soldiers in American uniforms waited in hiding, ready to set off explosives as soon as the Nazis were drawn into the trap that awaited them.

Except that they were in the ruins of Charleston, South Carolina, not France. Those who waited in hiding claimed allegiance only to themselves. And the group marching down the road into the waiting ambush were no Nazis, but a handful of kids. Not a one of them could be older than twenty.

This was not Hollywood.

"Joel. Tommy."

They had dashed from behind a dumpster to the open doorway of a squat brick building that had once housed a fire safety store. A young black woman with cornrows pulled back into a ponytail stood waiting for them, waving them into the building as she held a battered AK-47 propped against one hip.

"Annie," Tommy said by way of greeting as she closed the door behind them.

"How far?" she asked.

Joel moved towards one of the store's broken windows, looking out over stacks of fire suppression blankets and discharged fire extinguishers. "Couple hundred feet," he said quietly as he pulled a mirror no bigger than his palm out of a jacket pocket.

Annie joined him at the window. "Still just six of them?"

"Mmhmm," Joel nodded. "Far as we could see." He was looking across the street to another row of buildings, dark old manors that had likely been built during the Reconstruction years following the Civil War and had once housed Charleston's new rich before being converted to offices and apartment buildings in the second half of the Twentieth Century. Joel held up his small mirror and began angling it against the setting sun. He was answered across the street by the quick on-off of a single flashlight in a second-floor window.

"Okay," Joel said simply, pocketing his mirror and swinging his rifle off his shoulder. Tommy joined Annie and Joel at the windows looking out onto the suburban street. All three gently propped the barrels of their long-guns on the window sills, avoiding the spare shards of glass that still stabbed out from the frames.

At first it was quiet, only a gentle breeze rippling through the branches of the grand old oaks that lined the street, their tiny green buds heralding the onset of spring. But a minute passed and the low hum of voices began to materialize further up the street, to the right of where Tommy, Joel, and Annie looked out from their perch. Another minute and a group of teenagers sauntered into view, moving slowly as if in a hurry to go nowhere. They were watchful, carrying rifles and shotguns in the crooks of their elbows, but it was a bored watchfulness, born of habit rather than suspicion of immediate danger.

Three of them were black, two white, and the last was Hispanic. All male. Tommy guessed most were in the 17- to 19-year-old range. Kids.

Movement across the street caught Tommy's eye and he looked up to see Troy standing on a wide second-floor balcony overlooking the pillared front entrance of one of the old manor houses. As usual, Troy's black rifle was trained solidly on the teenager standing foremost in the group.

They had noticed it too. To their credit, despite their sudden cries of surprise, the teens were quick to react, instantly swinging guns up into position to point at their watcher above.

"Hold it, kids," Troy called down. "Take a look round yeh."

Tommy looked back to the group surrounded in the middle of the street and saw them start glancing worriedly around them. Tommy did not need to follow their anxious gazes to know no fewer than twenty-two barrels were sticking out of windows and pointing straight at the trapped teenagers. Most were the sleek black barrels of rifles, but a few were fitted with the prominent front sight that characterized fully automatic machine guns.

The group stopped moving. Several were looking towards a black kid with very dark skin and short hair who stood at their head. He wore a dark green rain jacket and stood with an old pump shotgun cradled against one shoulder.

"What's your name, kid?" Troy called out, pointing the muzzle of his rifle at the kid in the green rain jacket.

At first the young man did not answer and Tommy began to brace for resistance. It did not happen often, but it did happen and it rarely ended well. Yet a second passed and Tommy saw the kid's shoulders suddenly release. He slowly lowered his gun.

"Martin," he called back. "What d'you want?"

"Your gear." Judge Haney stepped out onto the balcony beside Troy, his hands tucked into his pants pockets with his camouflaged jacket pulled back. Haney had a way of disarming a quarry with no weapon but words. It was a practiced appearance, little different from the first time that Joel and Tommy had met the former judge, save that this time there was no pretense of these teens joining the family.

Judge never made the Offer to young people. Too many hormones, he said. Too hot-headed, too unpredictable.

Haney pursed his lips and gave a faint smile when Martin and his followers only narrowed their eyes and refused to move. "Young man," Haney said. "I only said we want your gear. If you put it all down without a fuss, we're happy to let you walk away with your lives."

"What the hell sort of good is that?" said one of the other teenagers.

"Shuddup, Jason," Martin said sharply.

Haney rocked back on the balls of his feet, frowning. "What's it gonna be, son?"

Martin stood there, still holding his rifle pointed at the ground while his comrades continued pointing their own firearms up at Troy and Haney.

"I don't much like havin' guns pointed at me, son," Haney continued. He nodded towards Troy. "My friend here, he likes it even less. So you best make your mind up pretty quick. You put your guns and such down and back off a few feet and I promise, you'll be free to walk away. Can even take what we don't need with you. There's plenty of houses round these parts for you to raid once you've moved on from here."

Martin made a face. "So why ain't _you_ raidin' them?"

"Because I ain't the one bein' robbed."

"Man, _fuck_ you, old man," Martin spat back angrily, but his tone was not defiant. He sounded almost whiny, like a little brother who has had his toy stolen by an elder sibling too strong to resist. Martin gave a jerk of his head, which cued the others around him to drop their firearms. With slow, wary expressions, they began to set their guns on the asphalt and slide their backpacks off their shoulders.

"That's us up," Joel muttered, pulling back from the window and turning around to head for the door. Tommy and Annie followed without a word.

The three of them emerged in the overgrown alleyway between the fire safety store and an adjoining brick building. Joel led the way with his rifle couched against his shoulder. Across the street, three others emerged from the front entrance of the house where Troy and Haney were standing.

The group of young men had backed off from their gear and raised their hands, though they all glared at the adults approaching them. As usual, Tommy's expression was stoic and still, jaw lightly clenched as his eyes flicked between the road and the youths they approached. It was a stark contrast to the threatening scowls that Joel and Annie wore, silently warning their quarry against any resistance.

As pre-arranged, the three family members who had come from Haney's direction remained standing with their rifles trained on the young men, while Joel, Tommy, and Annie knelt and began opening up the packs that had been abandoned at the center of the road. Tommy opened a dirty red hiking backpack that had been dropped by the teenager Martin had called Jason.

"Anythin' personal you want outta here?" Tommy said, glancing up at Jason. "Family stuff and that?"

"Yeah, I got a real personal box of bullets in there," the teen muttered back. "Coupla cans of tuna that've been in the family for generations."

Tommy pressed his lips together and rolled his eyes. Damnit if the kid didn't recognize help when it was staring him smack in the face. "Fine," Tommy grumbled back, annoyed. He tugged a tattered old wallet out of a side pocket and let it drop to the street.

"Hey!" Jason suddenly cried out. His friends started to hush him.

"I asked nicely, kid." It wasn't the kid's fault, not really. But as always, Tommy's discomfiture had flared to irritation, which he felt spreading hot up his neck and behind his ears. He retrieved the wallet and flipped it open. The driver's license of an older man stared back at him. Father, maybe.

"You get a kick outta robbin' kids or somethin'?" Martin abruptly demanded, even as he stared past the barrels of the guns that were aimed at him and his comrades.

Annie snorted as she pulled a plastic sack of ramen noodles, beef jerky, and mustard packets out of one of the bags. "Ain't no kids anymore, _kid_. If you've survived two years of hell without growin' up, then you oughta shoot whoever's been babyin' you. They ain't doin' you any favors."

"Joel!" Haney's voice called down to them in question. Joel looked up, lifting a hand in acknowledgement.

"C'mon, wrap it up, you two," he muttered towards Tommy and Annie.

Tommy finished going through the contents of a second backpack, pulling out a couple boxes of shotgun shells, a bottle of antibiotics, and a pump water purifier. He stuffed all into Jason's former backpack before slinging the red bag over a shoulder and standing. The second pack, now notably deflated, he tossed towards Martin. The teenager caught it.

Joel and Annie did likewise, each shouldering a pack with the gear they needed and throwing another back to their captives.

"You go that way," Joel said bluntly, pointing back the way the teenagers had come from. "Keep walkin' for three hours, then we don't care where you go, so long's you don't come lookin' for us. You stop sooner'n that and we'll know. We clear?"

"What about our guns?" Martin replied.

"No."

"C'mon, man," Martin said angrily. "You people are packin' fuckin' machine guns. You don't need a couple more rifles."

"No."

"Y'know we're dead without guns, right? Huh, big guy? Y'know you may as well shoot us, right?"

A look of annoyance crossed Joel's face and he pressed his lips together, pulling a black pistol from his belt. At first Martin stepped back as if expecting Joel to aim the gun at him, but he didn't. Instead, Joel pulled the hammer back on the pistol, pointed it at the asphalt several feet to the side of the group of teenagers, and pulled the trigger.

Tommy felt his ears ring with the discharge of the gun and the sharp crack as the bullet struck the pavement and careened into empty space, taking several large chips of asphalt with it. Martin had thrown his arms up around his face in surprise, but lowered them now with wide eyes.

"_Are you fuckin' crazy_, man?"

"Get walkin', kid," Joel rumbled coolly. "Good chance they heard that, if they're around."

Of course, the family had swept the area well in advance of choosing it as an ambush location. The only infected were locked in houses and office buildings or hung up in the barbed wire the military had set up around a now-abandoned road block a quarter mile away. But Martin and his followers didn't know that. Their faces now registered shock and disbelief, as if unable to decide whether Joel was extremely badass or extremely stupid.

Joel gestured with the tip of his pistol to point them back the way they had come. Although not quite tripping over each other, they began to turn with noticeable urgency.

"Hey kid," Tommy called out. Jason looked back with a glare that turned to surprise when Tommy suddenly threw the tattered leather wallet at him. Jason caught it without a word, shot Joel a scowl, then turned back to retreat with his companions.

As the kids started jogging back up the oak-lined suburban street, Tommy caught himself staring after them, his irritation fading as they grew farther away. Only when Joel hit the side of Tommy's arm did he recall himself. He turned back to Joel and Annie to find his brother watching him with an annoyed expression.

"Focus," Joel grunted, tapping his temple. He tossed one of their commandeered rifles at Tommy and turned his back before Tommy could reply.

* * *

><p><em>Later that Day, Late Night<em>

_- August 1, 2014_

_Tommy and Joel,_

_Gotta make this quick because Sargent Diaz here at the clinic only just told us there sending a helicopter to Huntersville in a half hour. They've stopped telling people about when they send out the choppers. Rioters were throwing rocks at one they sent to Alvar's Bend last week, I think because they thought the military was still sending out food to the smaller zones._

_People are getting pretty crazy here. I'm really glad to hear Huntersville is still calm. Just tell me if anything starts up there, Sargant Diaz said FEDRA's afraid the rioting will spread to the smaller zones._

_Does Joel still have newmonia? Never thought I'd get worked up about something like that, but if Huntersville is anything like Austin, their even stingyer with meds than food. Let me know if he's ok. Anyway, don't worry too much about me. Its getting rough here, but the military is pretty protective of the clinic. Got a lot of soldiers coming in anyhow. People are throwing bricks and things like that at them. I even had to help sow up a sargent that was stabbed yesterday. I couldn't believe that! I know people are just scared, but that's just stupid to attack the soldiers. What about what's outside the wall? Big picture, people._

_More later. You two stay safe._

_ Bonnie_

_ ps – Tell your friend Jav that if I ever __do__ make it to Huntersville, I'll take him up on his offer! That's what you Millers get for sitting on your hands. ;) -_

Tommy folded the worn letter and gently tapped it against his knee in thought. The thin smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth was bittersweet. Part of Tommy wanted to chuckle at the memory of Javier's threat to take Bonnie to dinner since neither Tommy nor Joel had ever worked up the courage to ask her, but that memory was tainted by reality. Jav would never meet Bonnie, let alone take her to dinner. And Bonnie? Even if she were alive, she probably thought _they_ were dead. Tommy wondered if the Austin Quarantine Zone even still existed.

"Go big or go home, Texas."

Tommy straightened, looking over his shoulder to where a poker game was being played on a coffee table by the light of two kerosene lamps. Joel was hunched over the table, casting a mildly amused look in the direction of the man taunting him, a square black fellow they all called Big Brian. Annie and two others – Robin and Little Brian – were also gathered around the table. They were all rubbing poker chips together, smiling smugly at Joel.

"Raise fifty," Joel finally rumbled, tossing a pair of chips into the pile gathered at the center of their playing table.

"Tryin' to buy the hand," Robin snorted disdainfully. She was a petite, middle-aged woman, lithe and weathered. Her gray-streaked brown hair fell messy around her shoulders.

"Nah," Annie chuckled. "Joel couldn't bluff if he wanted to. If he's bettin', he's got the cards."

Tommy watched arms and shoulders move as the players went around the table placing their bets. Shadows flickered across Joel's face as Tommy watched him, until his brother leaned forward finally and flipped his cards over.

"Oh damn!" Robin suddenly laughed, rocking back in her chair.

"Shit, Annie, I'm bettin' on you from now on," Little Brian grumbled as he slapped his cards down on the table.

Big Brian leaned forward, shaking his head and grinning as he gathered up the cards everyone had thrown down and pushed the pile of chips towards Joel. "Goddamn four of a kind. Better keep my fuckin' mouth closed next time, eh Joel?"

"Guess so." Joel replied, quietly smug as he leaned back and crossed his arms.

Tommy heard the slap of cards as Big Brian began shuffling the deck to deal another hand. With a quiet sigh, Tommy pocketed Bonnie's old letter and stood. He noticed Joel look up, but although his brother's eyes followed him as he left the room, Joel said nothing.

The large library in which the poker game was being played was on the second floor of one of Charleston's stately manor houses. If Tommy stood still, he could hear the sigh of the ocean outside over the rumble of voices of various family members spread throughout the house. The floorboards creaked under foot as he made his way down the wide wooden staircase that led downstairs. As he descended into the large entry hall with its dark oak door, a spacious, high-ceilinged living room opened on Tommy's right, a wood-paneled dining room on his left.

Others were gathered downstairs too, some quietly talking, others asleep on couches or spread across the floor. Their group numbered twenty-three now, down one since blond-haired, tough-as-nails Lori had been bitten last week.

Tommy opened the front door and let himself out onto the house's wide wrap-around porch. Two fat white pillars flanked the brick steps leading up to the porch from the street below.

"Howdy, Tommy."

Raising his brows, Tommy looked behind him as he stepped out onto the porch. In the dim light of the moon, Judge Haney sat quietly swaying on an old porch swing, cigar smoke wrapping around him as he puffed on one of the thick Havanas they had found in the house. Troy's black outline leaned against one of the pillars.

"Judge," Tommy nodded in greeting. "Not interruptin', am I?"

"Not at all," Haney replied, waving his cigar as if to brush the thought aside. "In fact, your timing is opportune. Troy and I here were just playin' a game and I'm afraid poor Troy's beginnin' to run out of ideas."

Tommy glanced at Troy, who was shaking his head with a patient smile, as if having been in the middle of indulging Haney one of his lengthy philosophical discussions. Casting an amused look back at Haney, Tommy stuck his hands in his pockets and leaned a shoulder against the pillar opposite Troy, standing so that he could look out across the street on which the old mansion stood but still glance back at Haney.

"Okay, I'll bite," Tommy said, quirking a brow. "What's the game?" He watched as lightning bugs drifted lazily through the branches of a towering oak. The chirrup of crickets and the whine of mosquitos was all that disturbed the gentle blanket of Charleston's night.

Haney cleared his throat and took a pull on his cigar, clearly relishing a new object for his latest metaphysical musing. "All right then," he rumbled, smiling. "What do you think today's date is?"

"Date? As in calendar?"

"Mmhmm," the former judge nodded, eyes crinkling with amusement.

Tommy blinked, surprised. He did not know. In fact, he could not recall the last time he had paused to consider it. Who cared anyhow? Time was winter, spring, summer, and fall. Time was dawn and dusk. It was how many days your body could go without water or substantive food. How long it took for someone bitten to turn.

"I dunno," Tommy muttered after a second.

Haney tapped a finger against the side of his head as he waved cigar smoke away from his face. "Think about it. Even a ballpark?"

Tommy considered. "Well," he started slowly, frowning as he allowed his gaze to wander absently out into the darkness of the black street. "The infection hit Austin September 26th, 2013—"

"You remember the exact date?" Troy interrupted abruptly, lifting a brow.

"It's...yeah," Tommy answered. The reply sounded as vague in his head as it did on his lips. "Yeah, I do. Anyway...September 2013. We ended up in Huntersville a few weeks later. Spent I guess a little less'n a year there." The date on Bonnie's last letter sprang to mind as Tommy paused for a second.

"August. Late August. And that'd be 2014. So August 2014. And we were, what, a month or two on the road before we met up with you? Guess that's September or October. Went through one winter, one spring. Right, because it was spring when we were in Mobile. That's into 2015. Summer, fall, and winter again. So 2016. And it's just startin' to turn to spring, so early spring 2016."

Haney tilted his head forward, smiling as if pleased but waiting for more.

"Okay," Tommy muttered. "April 2016. What, you want an actual day? Mid-April then. April 15th, 2016. How's that?"

The former judge was practically beaming, grinning as he blew out a gust of smoke and looked at Troy, who just rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"Very close," Haney chuckled. "Very, very close. April 2nd, 2016."

Tommy felt his brow wrinkle and he crossed his arms, fixing Haney with a curious look. "You actually know that?"

"Why, of course I do." Judge was digging into the inner pocket of the ratty old suit vest he still wore. Through the haze of cigar smoke and the murkiness of night, Tommy saw Haney draw a thin black book from the inside of the vest. Fading gold filigree flickered across the leather cover. _2013 Planner._

"I had this in my pocket when the call went round that the Pike County Courthouse would be closing until further notice," Haney said, flipping open the old personal planner and paging to the back. "And I kept it in my pocket when I finally abandoned my truck on the way home in a mess of traffic on southbound I-55. Hell, I kept it with me all the way to Moseby and then long after Moseby was gone."

The front door suddenly clicked as it was opened from within. Joel stepped out onto the porch, looking vaguely surprised to find Haney and Troy out there. Haney nodded at him, waving for him to join them. Tommy glanced at his brother as Joel closed the door behind him, but Joel's expression was silent and unreadable. He glanced at Tommy as he seated himself in an old wooden rocking chair beside the porch swing on which Haney sat.

"Now," Judge continued, uninterrupted. "I noted every day that passed. And I've written down every day since 2013 ended. Why, you ask?"

"Why, Judge," Troy rumbled patiently, still indulgently shaking his head.

Haney held up the planner. "Because time matters. Time isn't just the future – when cold weather's comin', when hot weather's comin', when the crops'll come up, what have you. Time is _history_." He pointed at Tommy. "You referenced your _history_ to reckon today's date. When you arrived at your quarantine zone. When you left. When you met us. September 26th, a significant date for you."

Joel's eyes narrowed as he looked sharply at Tommy, question written across his face. Tommy pursed his lips and looked down.

Next Haney pointed at Troy. "Troy here referenced the date he was released from prison, when we met at Moseby, when Moseby was overrun. _Significant events_."

"This got a point, Judge?" Troy mumbled with a half-smile.

"The _point_ is that, if we just start trackin' time by the seasons, years'll go by before we even know it. Histories will blur. Milestones will come and go and nobody will notice. Hell, it'll be 20 years after the outbreak and nobody will even realize."

"Ain't a milestone I figure most of us expect to reach, Judge," Joel said, speaking for the first time. His posture had relaxed as he leaned back into his rocking chair, but his expression remained guarded after Judge's mention of his birth date. "I'll be fine just gettin' to tomorrow."

"Short-sighted, Joel," Haney answered chidingly, waving his cigar at Joel like a father reprimanding a son. "If all you think of is tomorrow, then all you'll remember is yesterday."

Tommy felt his shoulders tighten as he glanced up at his brother. His eyes flickered to the broken watch on Joel's wrist, glinting in the moonlight. Tommy suspected Joel wanted nothing more than to forget everything that had happened before yesterday.

One of the azalea bushes that sprawled out from the base of the porch rustled as if shaken by a bird, but the sudden sound was enough to silence the four of them, with their hypersensitivity to anything even remotely threatening. Frowning, Troy pushed off from the pillar and pulled a small flashlight from his pocket, flipping it on and sweeping it across two pink and purple azalea bushes.

A white face looked back up at them.

The black barrel of a pistol was pointed at Troy.

"Shit!" was all Troy had time to yell before Charleston's sleepy night was snapped to attention by the crack of the pistol firing. Tommy watched Troy's arm jerk back as the bullet ripped straight through his forearm, tearing through bone or blood with lightning speed before exiting out the far side. Troy howled with anger and pain.

Philosophical rambling forgotten, Judge Haney's face turned cold and furious. The porch swing flew back as Haney abruptly stood, one hand dropping his cigar to the ground and the other diving into his vest, where he kept a heavy pistol in a shoulder holster.

The wooden floorboards of the wide porch shuddered beneath Tommy as someone vaulted the porch railing behind him. He started to turn, reaching for the knife he kept on his belt, cursing his decision to leave his revolver upstairs, but something heavy and blunt suddenly slammed into the back of his head. Lights exploded across his vision and his eardrums instantly felt like someone had stuffed cotton into them.

As he stumbled forward and fell to his knees, he saw two other strangers vault the porch behind Joel and grab the back of his brother's rocking chair as Joel started to stand. They jerked hard, tumbling both Joel and chair backwards in a clatter of feet and breaking wood. Tommy caught a glimpse of one of the strangers in the residual light of Troy's wildly flailing flashlight.

It was Martin. The teenagers they had robbed earlier that day.

Tommy hit the porch on hands and knees, still fighting the stars in front of his eyes, but a second later he felt the blunt object strike him again from behind, this time smashing down across his upper back and forcing him to collapse onto his chest. He felt the floorboards shudder again as his attacker stepped closer. Although winded and half-blind, Tommy yelled angrily and twisted, kicking out suddenly and sweeping his right leg out behind him. He was rewarded with a surprised grunt as his attacker's legs were suddenly swept out from under him and the kid dropped to the porch.

Adrenaline coursed through Tommy's veins and the blackness of night suddenly looked dim gray. The kid squirming on the porch flopped onto his back and Tommy recognized Jason, the teenager who had carried a wallet with an older man's picture in it.

A loud bang behind Tommy caused him to cringe forward instinctively, momentarily distracting him from Jason as he twisted to look back at the others. He saw Troy, bloodied arm and all, diving for another kid who stood at the base of the porch steps holding a shotgun. But sharp movement in Tommy's peripheral vision brought his attention back to Jason.

"Stop!" Tommy barked as Jason started to raise a wooden baseball bat.

The teenager swung forward, but with them both still sprawled across the porch, the angle was awkward and the swing was weak. Shockwaves rippled through Tommy's fingers as he caught the makeshift weapon. Jason instantly released the bat and scrambled to pull something from his belt. A knife. The moonlight slid across a six-inch blade.

"Goddamn, kid!" Moving with adrenaline-fueled speed, Tommy leapt forward, throwing the bat aside and slamming against the kid, trying to pin Jason to the porch. "Stop! Stop movin'!" Tommy was growling, but Jason was putting up the fight of his life. Stop, please stop, please stop. The two of them both had fingers wrapped around the knife's handle, each trying to jerk it out of the other's grasp. Tommy could feel the cold metal of the flat of the blade pressing against his stomach as he fought to keep Jason pinned to the porch.

It took just the slightest push. Tommy pressed the bottom of his palm against the base of the knife, angling it just enough for the tip of the blade to point towards Jason's stomach. And Tommy pushed. Despite skin and muscle, it slid up under Jason's ribcage with unbearable ease. Tommy heard the kid gasp beneath him.

Jason's eyes were wide as Tommy rolled off him, breathing hard. But Tommy had no time to think about the blood that had soaked his front and smeared his fingers. He spun around to look back towards the others. Joel was on one knee, his back against the porch railing. Martin was slouched in front him, feebly kicking and flailing, clawing at the arm that Joel had wrapped around his neck from behind. Desperation thundered across both of their faces.

The front door suddenly flew open and a stream of people, alerted by the sounds of the struggle outside, staggered out of the house and began bellowing at the attackers. With a sudden relieved slump of his shoulders, Joel abruptly pushed Martin's limp form aside. A gunshot rang out and briefly doused the dark porch in the light of the muzzle flash. Two more followed in quick succession. Tommy saw Robin pointing a heavy pistol down the steps, towards where Tommy had last seen Troy leaping towards the teenager with the shotgun.

The tone of the crowd abruptly changed. Less desperate shouting, more frantic talking. Even though Tommy could not see everything through the mess of people pouring onto the porch, he knew their attackers had been dispatched. Behind him, he tried to ignore the prostrate teenager who lay with a knife in his stomach.

"Tommy!"

Someone had helped pull Tommy to his feet. Joel came pushing through the crowd of people, eyes wide and blood staining his shirt sleeves and pants. But as he neared, he reached out and touched the tips of his fingers against Tommy's chest, as if to reassure himself that his little brother was still there.

"You're okay? Are you alright?"

Tommy swallowed and nodded. "Fine. I'm fine. You?"

"Yeah, I'm good," Joel nodded too.

"_Oh my god_."

The two of them turned towards the horrified whisper that had cut through the drum of voices like a knife through butter. People were turning to look in the same direction and several began backing away from something at their center. Suddenly Troy's black form towered above them all, roughly pushing people aside as he sought to get at whatever they were all staring down at.

Someone coughed. It was raspy and wet.

The creeping fist of cold fear began to wrap around Tommy's heart as he slowly nudged people aside to see what they were looking at. He felt Joel following behind him.

Haney lay with one shoulder propped against the side of the house where he had fallen. His cigar still smoldered by his feet. The shotgun had sprayed birdshot across his entire chest and a dark scattered stain now soaked the front of his frayed dress shirt and vest. Someone shined a flashlight down at him. Blood had soaked his white and gray beard a deep red and left his neck slick.

He was gasping, desperately reaching out to Troy, who had knelt by his side. Troy looked helpless as he held his friend's outstretched hand. Troy himself was cradling a bloody left arm, but he stared down at Haney with parted lips and an expression that begged for the miracle he knew would never come. Haney's eyes rolled back and forth as he fought to breathe, even as the breath in his shredded lungs dwindled.

Every person on the porch stood stock still, mouths aghast as they watched their leader struggle. Judge's gasps became empty croaks. Glass passed over his eyes as his sight began to fade. Slowly, with rattling breath, Judge's writhing weakened and his body became sickeningly still.

Beside him, Tommy felt Joel reach up and grasp his shoulder with bloody fingers. Both brothers bowed their heads. Somewhere in the distance, the crickets started to sing again.

* * *

><p><em>Next Morning, Dawn<em>

Blood still caked the edges of Tommy's fingernails and the lines that ran across his palms. It had mixed with the deep, rich dirt that he and Joel had spent the early pre-dawn hours shoveling out of a deep grave. Tommy rubbed his hands together, but the grime remained and an ugly taste began to spread through his mouth.

The family had gathered in the backyard of the manor house, where two white-blooming magnolia trees looked out across a field of waist-high grass that eventually dwindled to the rolling dunes marking the edge of the Atlantic Ocean. They stood with dirty hands clasped in front of them, their tatty medley of muddy rain jackets and blood-stained coats a far more somber sight than black suits and dresses any day.

Troy and Joel stood at the head of the grave, each with black expressions, unmoving. Troy's heavily bandaged arm was held in a sling and Joel had two fingers splinted together. They had spoken on and off throughout the hours following Haney's death, usually out of earshot of everyone else. From the snippets that Tommy had overheard, he gathered that Troy, who spoke just about as little as Joel did, did not know what to say at the impending funeral.

Tommy held Judge's old 2013 planner in one hand. It was stained dry brown now and its front cover was pocked by birdshot, but its contents were still readable. Slipped between its pages, he had found an old driver's license and a single photo. The photo showed Judge, fifty pounds heavier and cleaner cut, with a gray-haired woman and a boy of four or five, sitting at a picnic table holding ice cream cones. As for the driver's license, it was Haney's. Tommy's breath had caught in his throat when he had read it.

It had been Haney's birthday yesterday. He had turned 61.

At the back of the pocket planner, Judge had diligently recorded a date with each passing day. Several dates had names beside them. Tommy had flipped back a few pages to find Sept. 3, 2015, next to which Judge had written _Javier Garza._ More recently, _Lori Mellor_ was recorded beside March 26, 2016.

Tommy opened the planner and thumbed to the newest page, where Judge's neat handwriting had already written _April 2, 2016._ With an old ballpoint pen, Tommy scrawled beside the date: _Russell Clement Haney_.

Troy cleared his throat and those gathered looked up at him. The helplessness that had gripped their de facto new leader the night before had vanished. His expression was flinty, determined. A gentle breeze ruffled the ends of his bushy black hair and beard as he opened his mouth and took a deep breath.

"Judge..." Troy swallowed and started again. "Judge knew better what t'say at these things. I ain't gonna try and say what he coulda said better. He was family and he looked after us all and that's all any of us care about."

He cleared his throat again and his face hardened. Behind him, Joel straightened, lips pressing together as if he knew what Troy was about to say.

"But _this_," Troy said sharply, pointing down into the grave where Haney's body lay. "This ain't ever gonna happen again. Judge is dead on account of us bein' not careful enough. Everyone, every_thing_, that ain't a part of this family is a threat to it. Everyone we let walk away could do _this_ to us all over again."

Others were nodding. Even Tommy, who felt the familiar discomfort begin to churn in his stomach, could not help but find a part of himself agreeing as he stared down at Haney's body. Dried blood still clotted the former judge's beard.

"I ain't gonna let it happen," Troy continued. "I ain't lettin' 'em walk away no more." He paused, staring fiercely now at those gathered around the grave. "There anybody here got a problem with that?"

Tommy looked up. Troy was looking around at all those assembled, most of whom were nodding. But behind Troy, Joel was staring straight at Tommy, expression hard. Tommy felt the familiar sense of loneliness sweep over him. He dropped his gaze, swallowed, and nodded once.

Satisfied by the murmurs of assent, Troy knelt beside the pile of freshly-shoveled earth and gathered up a handful of soil. He stood at the edge of the grave, looking down.

"Bye, Judge," he said grimly and threw the handful of dirt into the hole beneath him.

* * *

><p><strong>Thank you for reading and reviewing! To my regular readers, thank you for your patience as I got through an exam this week. The good news is I'm on school break until the end of August, so should be back to updating every week or so, as work permits. <strong>Click Follow to get instant notification of when a new chapter is up!<strong> Tune in next time for a little more Tommy and Joel one-on-one as the family truly starts to become the Hunters that Joel alluded to in the game.  
><strong>

**Finally, thank you once again to the folks who take the time to leave a review. I especially want to thank my Guest reviewer who left the four paragraph comment. I'm honored that you hold my story in such high regard and I'm glad to hear that the emotions and relationship dynamics I've tried to convey are actually coming out on the page. Thank you and I hope to continue your agony! ;)  
><strong>


	9. Chapter 9 - The Shakes

Chapter 9

_December 11, 2016, Late Night_

A heartbeat as loud as pounding drums filled Tommy's ears. He could feel his eardrums shudder with each thump, feel the sound fill his entire head, growing more rapid, more desperate, more close to death. Below him, Tommy saw the young, red-headed man struggling, his cheeks flush red as the life was choked out of him. Tommy felt the man thrashing beneath him, but nothing could release Tommy's iron grip around the man's neck, as the thunder of heartbeats threatened to split his head in two.

Without warning, the heartbeats changed. The dull thump became scratching, desperate clawing, wild flailing fists, broken fingernails. Tommy felt his tongue stick at the back of his throat as he suddenly gasped in a breath of air and shot up from his bed, his red-headed victim vanishing into the dark interior of the RV in which Tommy had been sleeping. The derelict motor home was shaking as hundreds of infected pounded at its flimsy plastic siding. The door was shuddering under the weight of the soon-to-be invaders.

And in an instant, the sound changed again. Like a blanket, silence descended. Tommy felt a cold shock flash through his entire body and linger on the surface of his skin as the wild dream suddenly puffed into nothingness. He felt as if he were emerging from a black ocean, gasping for air. The RV's interior was dark and quiet as Tommy blinked up at the open roof window that allowed in a square of moonlight. Tommy fought to clear his head of the spinning haze of sleep.

Someone was knocking. It was quick and insistent, rattling the RV door.

"Whatha hell?"

Joel's sleep-slurred voice was enough to draw Tommy back to reality, banishing the lingering remnants of his nightmare. As sleep receded, Tommy's mind began turning. The knocking was controlled, not wild. Not infected.

"Tommy, get the door," Joel mumbled from the darkness at one end of RV, where a dinette had been converted into a fold-down bed.

Grunting, Tommy rolled off of the soft brown couch that ran along one side of the luxury motor home. He rubbed sleep from his eyes, fighting to keep the bitter taste of his nightmare out of his mouth. The image of the red-haired man still lingered in his mind's eye. Tommy had not choked the man – he had shot him from fifty feet away – but that fact did little to erase the haunting echo of heartbeats that still drummed a ghostly rhythm through his head.

Tommy stood, grabbing a flashlight and loaded pistol from the window sill above the couch. He flicked the light on and moved cautiously towards the RV's door. Pointing the flashlight along the gun's barrel, Tommy unlatched the door and opened it.

Big Brian stood outside.

"Jesus, Brian," Tommy muttered, relaxing.

"Get up," Brian said without ceremony, urgency in his voice. "There's people comin' into the park."

"What?" Joel joined Tommy at the door, pulling on a flannel shirt as he looked down at the big black man standing outside. "Where? How many? Where's Troy?"

"Good number of 'em," Brian replied, talking fast. "South side, by the old office buildin'. Troy's getting' half our people up to that separate lot across the road, where the RV's are all parked in a half-circle. Usual set up. Bonfire big'n bright. Throw a coupla bottles around to draw 'em over. You've got Tommy, Annie, Robin, Eric, and Bruce. Follow their left flank til they make the fire, then wait for Troy's signal. I'm takin' Karen, Paul, Kester, Robbie, and Jo on their right flank. Got it?"

"Got it," Joel nodded tersely.

"Good," Brian said, then he was gone.

Instinct sped Tommy into action. He quickly closed the RV door and followed Joel back into its dark interior. Joel was already pulling on boots and a coat. The cold winter air that followed them into the RV from the briefly-opened door sent a shiver across Tommy's back. Even with the mild winter that the suburbs of Charlotte, North Carolina enjoyed, nighttime still brought a chill. Tommy grabbed an old brown Carhartt jacket and shrugged it over his shoulders.

"How you boys doin' on ammo?"

Annie emerged from the back of the RV, where the two brothers had offered her the big master bed and a bit of privacy. She was already dressed and checking the long curved magazine of her AK-47. Joel's gaze lingered on her a second longer than necessary before he nodded curtly.

"M'fine," he muttered.

"Same," Tommy nodded.

Joel tucked a pistol into his back waistband and grabbed the 12-guage shotgun that leaned against the cabinet beneath a long dormant flat-screen tv. He pushed past Tommy and opened the door of the RV. Tommy and Annie followed.

Ranks of luxury motor homes spread out in tidy rows all across the former RV sales park. Once, these monstrosities of modern extravagance would have housed retired snowbirds in mobile home parks and been littered with fake rolls of plastic grass, garish colored gnomes sitting around them. Now, rugged men and women in winter coats and hats, bearing rifles and machetes, were spilling out of them. Moonlight glinted off the stocks and barrels of guns, but no one turned on flashlights. Lights gave away positions.

"Robin, Eric, Bruce, you're with me," Joel said quickly, pointing at Robin and two men, one thirty-something with a light brown beard, the other with sunken cheeks and steely gray hair pushed back over his head. Joel paused and fixed them all with a hard look. "Family first, yeah?"

"Family first," the group replied, nodding, Tommy somewhat less enthusiastically than the rest.

All followed as Joel turned and began jogging along one row of RVs and towards the main road that lead into the park. Their group passed through several ranks of forgotten motor homes, moving from the hulking shadows of luxury RVs and in and amongst smaller RVs and trailers, which provided more room to maneuver. As they neared the road, Joel slowed between two short, 21-foot Winnebago trailers. Holding a finger to his lips, he silently gestured towards the ground beneath each trailer.

Tommy dropped to the gravel beside Robin and gray-haired Bruce and scuttled partially beneath one of the trailers, pressing into the shadows it cast across the gravel lot. Joel and the others did the same beneath the second trailer. In silence, they waited.

As usual, Tommy felt the creeping nausea begin to wrap around his stomach and throat, but he closed his eyes and clenched his jaw and pressed his forehead against the cool barrel of his rifle. The image of the nameless red-haired man once again flashed before his mind's eye and he let out a shaky breath as he felt his own heartbeats quicken.

The sound of boots on the gravel road brought Tommy back to reality. He looked up, holding his breath as he stared out from under the trailer. Boots began to shuffle into view, twenty feet away and illuminated by the erratic beams of flashlights that several people carried as they walked. Tommy could see only feet and legs, but he estimated there must be roughly a dozen in the group of strangers entering the RV park. They were speaking in low voices, cautious as they moved along the road.

Tommy heard scuffling to his left and glanced over to see Joel rising from beneath the second trailer, preparing to follow their quarry. Wordlessly, Tommy followed suit, standing and brushing gravel off of his jeans and forearms. Their party checked rifle clips and safety switches before moving out from the cover of the trailers and onto the road. The group of strangers continued walking a good hundred feet in front of them, oblivious to the armed men and women who pursued, cloaked by the dark of night.

Tommy stayed near Joel, cradling his rifle with practiced ease as they quietly followed the strangers. Yet as he watched the group ahead of them, a sense of unease began to creep over him, and it had nothing to do with the idea of killing them. There were indeed about a dozen of them and their dark outlines were accompanied by the distinct silhouettes of rifles and other firearms. But it was more than that. These people looked...fat.

"Joel," Tommy whispered to his brother as they clung to shadows. "Somethin' ain't right."

Joel glanced back. "What?"

"Look at 'em. Don't it look like half of 'em are wearin' flak jackets?"

Joel returned to his gaze to the group of strangers they pursued. He squinted into the darkness, then slowly nodded. "Yeah," he whispered, voice pinched with sudden concern. "Ain't wearin' uniforms, if they're military."

Tommy felt his pulse quicken and drew level with Joel, still keeping his voice low. "If it's military, Joel, there might be a zone nearby. Charlotte's only a few miles from here. We shoot these guys, they'll never let us in."

"_If _there's a zone and _if _they're military," Joel growled back, his voice taking on an edge. "We ain't seen a zone in months, Tommy, and none of 'em have been friendly to outsiders. The only good these people are to us is for what they're carryin' on 'em right now."

Tommy started to argue, but Joel silenced him with a look and turned away to continue their pursuit. Tommy clenched his jaw and followed. Anger and frustration roiled together in the pit of his stomach, but now was no time to get into an argument. He settled for bitter silence.

Ahead, the orange glow of Troy's bonfire came gradually into view. It threw flickering shadows across the sides of several luxury RVs that had long ago been drawn together in an artful half-circle display of chrome and shining white and silver siding. Tommy heard the sound of laughter and bottles being thrown against the ground. Ahead of them, he watched as the group of well-armed strangers began to slow and creep towards the distraction. Even from this distance, Tommy could see that no one was gathered around the bonfire. The strangers moved towards the light with understandable caution.

An absurdly abrupt thought occurred to Tommy. He could not see their faces in the darkness. That would be so much better.

And just as he was processing that thought, a shot cracked across the night sky. Tommy glimpsed the muzzle flash on the far side of the bonfire. Troy's group. That was the signal.

Joel and the others were suddenly in motion. They flew towards nearby trailers, quickly finding cover and pulling back the hammers on their guns. Tommy took a knee behind the tongue of a long trailer, with his shoulder set against its corner so that he could spin around and dive for cover behind the camper body if he needed to. Joel knelt behind a white pop-up trailer just in front of Tommy.

By the time Tommy and the rest of his party were in place, the strangers were beginning to turn away from the bonfire, alerted to impending danger by the single shot. Yet suddenly a salvo of shots rang out, revealing a row of muzzle fire from around the hulking RVs that squatted behind the bonfire. Now the strangers were yelling, turning, fleeing the unseen foe that was pouring lead into their front ranks. Tommy saw several of the strangers drop to the ground.

His movements mechanical, Tommy raised his rifle and couched the stock against his shoulder. The muscles in his jaw tightened as he sighted down the barrel, picking one of the shorter figures of the group they hunted, but one that had the characteristic stockiness of a person wearing a bulletproof vest. Tommy felt the thud of his heart against his chest for just a second before his mind went blank and his actions became automatic. He pulled the trigger.

The short stranger's head jerked back and the person tumbled backwards. Damnit if Tommy wasn't a good shot.

He pulled the bolt back on the rifle and chambered another round, barely blinking as the spent cartridge whizzed past his head. He vaguely processed the deafening roar of gunfire, now all around him and further away to his right, where Big Brian's team had come up on the strangers' other flank.

No time to think. Tommy sighted on another stranger and pulled the trigger, bracing as the rifle leapt back against his shoulder. The figure staggered a pace, its silhouette doubling over. Again, the grinding ring as the bolt pulled back and the spent cartridge popped free, chambering a new round. Again, the careful sight along the barrel. Again, the tug of the trigger. Again, the jerking movement of a stranger struck and slouching to the ground.

Again and again and again. Tommy became deaf to the crack of individual bullets. All he could hear was the metallic ring of the sliding bolt, his own steady breathing, his own racing heart.

By the time they had finished, Tommy could hear almost nothing. It was always this way immediately after firefights. It would be a good hour before the ringing finally faded from his ears.

But the shaking set in not long after Tommy lowered his rifle. He could feel the shiver start in his chest and ripple through his arms, snaking up his neck and eventually making his teeth chatter. It was not the cold that made him shake. He closed his eyes and took several long, deep breaths, forcing himself to think not of the bodies that now lay collapsed in the roadway ahead of them, but of other things. The rare treat that the plush RV couch had been to sleep on. The chocolate bars that Robin had found in an old magazine shop and shared amongst their group. The poker game that Tommy had won two nights ago.

Gradually, the shaking slowed and finally stopped altogether and Tommy became aware of other senses around him, like the worn familiarity of the rifle beneath his fingers and the sound of voices near the bonfire. He opened his eyes.

Joel and the others were standing, moving towards the bonfire and their fallen victims. They were not looking back at Tommy. That was good. If they ever noticed the uncontrollable shaking that stole over him immediately after an ambush, they never mentioned it.

Tommy stood. With slow, deliberate motion, he lifted the bolt of his rifle and tugged back on it a last time, popping free the last spent cartridge. With a new bullet ready for any surprises, he grabbed the rifle's strap and slung it over one shoulder before turning to follow Joel and the others. As he neared the scattered pile of bodies, he began counting them, as he always did. Thirteen. Not for the first time, it occurred to him that humans were too easy to kill. The slightest tug of a trigger or the slightest push of a well-sharpened blade and life was gone.

Troy appeared out of the darkness just as Tommy was shaking his head to clear his mind. Their black-bearded leader still wore his distinctive vest, with its embroidered blazing cutlass across the back, but the collar of his flannel shirt was twisted and his hair was noticeably mashed in one direction, indicating he too had been woken just as abruptly and dressed just as quickly as they had. But even if he looked haggard in the half light of the dying bonfire, a small smile tugged at one corner of his mouth, a tired look of victory.

"Good job, folks," he rumbled, raising his voice so all could hear. "Took us a bit by surprise, but by the looks of 'em, it'll be worth it. Let's see what we got."

Their group of two dozen or so began to converge on the dead in the center of the street. Flashlights flickered across the bloody bodies, confirming Tommy's suspicion that many had worn flak jackets. They had been well-armed too. Side arms and rifles be damned; these people had carried assault rifles. Something at the back of Tommy's mind hinted he had heard the rapid fire of an automatic weapon during the firefight, but it had been something he had only vaguely processed at the time. In any case, most of these strangers had been too intent on finding cover from their unseen foes to focus on returning fire.

People began to kneel on the asphalt and rustle through the pockets and backpacks of the dead, but Tommy found himself squinting at the bodies, shining his flashlight at the bulk of them in the center of the street and then at others that had fallen in a sporadic pattern as they had attempted to flee. Joel had been right. They were not wearing military uniforms. Yet they did all have something in common.

"Joel, lookit this," Tommy muttered, lightly tapping his brother's elbow. He knelt beside one of the bodies, ignoring the fact that the dead man's face had been nearly obliterated by a well-placed shot. Joel stepped behind Tommy, looking down. Pointing his flashlight at the corpse, Tommy reached out and stuck two fingers under a black armband that was wrapped around the dead man's upper left arm.

"What is that?" Joel said. He bent over, squinting down at the armband as well.

Nearby, Troy looked up and frowned in question. "What's goin' on, boys?"

Tommy waved him over. "Look. They're all wearin' the same armbands. Every one of 'em." He shined his flashlight across the scatter of bodies to prove his point.

Looking back at the dead man he knelt beside, Tommy frowned. At first he had thought it was a plain black armband, but he saw now a dirty white sigil. It looked almost like an elaborate letter T, with a circle at the center and two broad wings on both sides at the top, like an airplane. The vertical centerpiece of the sigil was shaped like a sword, or two swords side by side, stabbing downwards. Tommy ran a thumb across the strange symbol.

"What the hell is that?" Joel muttered. "Troy, you see this?"

Troy joined them, crouching beside Tommy and likewise reaching out to touch the symbol, a quizzical expression throwing shadows across his face. "Gang symbol, maybe?"

"Pretty well armed for some random gang," Tommy said.

"Could be former military."

"Or new military," Joel muttered, causing Tommy and Troy to look up at him in question. He shrugged. "Country's fallin' apart. Ain't so hard to imagine armed militias tryin' to put it back together."

Others around them began to mutter, briefly leaving off searching the bodies. Troy's expression darkened and he waved as if swatting at a fly. He leaned on his black rifle as he stood.

"Alright, people," he growled. "It don't matter anyway. We're alive and they ain't, so whatever they were, their little armbands ain't doin' 'em no good no more. Let's get on with it."

Tommy remained kneeling as Joel stood and moved to Troy's side, following their blunt-speaking leader as he began to move amongst the bodies, directing others to return to searching them for useful supplies. Sighing, Tommy released the mysterious black armband and turned instead to the dead man's boots as he began to untie the laces.

* * *

><p><em>December 12, 2016, Morning<em>

Tommy stared down at the photograph that sat on an open page of the ratty old 2013 pocket planner. It was smudged and frayed around the edges, likely once caressed with forlorn frequency by Judge when he had been alive. It was odd how Tommy had come to form a memory of Judge as the man in the photograph – fifty pounds heavier, grinning, eyes twinkling in the company of an unknown woman and little boy – more than the Judge that Tommy had actually known: gray, haggard, grim, caring but guarded. Perhaps it was a trick of mind, since this photograph was the only physical evidence that remained of Judge's existence. Perhaps it was merely wishful thinking on Tommy's point.

He shook his head and bent over the planner, dispelling the distracting thought as he quickly wrote _Dec. 16, 2016_ on a fresh line. The blank pages at the back of the planner were almost completely filled. Tommy would soon have to find something new to record the passing days in. He closed the planner, keeping the photograph tucked between its pages.

Someone nudged Tommy's elbow and he glanced up. It was Joel. He was holding up a half-full bottle of Jim Beam whiskey and a glass, both commandeered from the back of the manager's office in the main building at the center of the RV dealership. Tommy looked around them. Six or seven of the big captain's chairs had been pulled out of the front of several luxury RVs and gathered in a semi-circle around a fire between two motor homes. Others sat around Tommy and Joel, quietly chatting as they idly worked, sewing up torn clothing, cleaning guns, sipping whiskey. Tommy blinked as he looked back at Joel. It was barely mid-morning, but what did that matter anymore? Tommy nodded.

Joel set the glass on a plastic Igloo cooler between them and tipped the bottle of Jim Beam into it. It was a small glass, but Joel filled it nearly to the top before passing the bottle onto Big Brian, who sat on Joel's other side. Tommy drew a deep breath and sighed, catching the glass and taking a long swig, enjoying the burn of the amber liquid. It was just to take the edge off. That was all.

"Okay boys, here goes," Annie said, looking up with a grin from across the fire. She cradled an old battery-powered radio and CD player in her lap. She had spent the better part of a half hour cleaning the battery compartment after nearly three years of dormancy had caused the old batteries to ooze chalky white acid. But she looked triumphant now as she slotted in fresh batteries and popped the compartment closed before flipping the player upright. Everyone looked up expectantly.

Annie punched the power button and was rewarded by the neon green of the player's display panel lighting up. Grinning, she pressed Play on the CD player. A steel guitar started playing, dredging up a half-forgotten memory from the back of Tommy's mind as Montgomery Gentry's _Back When I Knew It All_ began to crackle through the speakers. Even Tommy found himself smiling.

"Alright, Annie!"

"Hell yeah, girl!"

The others began hooting their approval and clapping as Annie spread her arms and made an appreciatory sitting bow. Joel wore a small smile as he nodded at her over the top of his own glass of whiskey.

Tommy leaned back, listening to the music play. It felt like a remnant of a dream. The memory of crackling speakers at the front of an old van, a rifle across his lap and Joel and Javier sprawled across the backseats, seemed more real than the world the song had once come from.

Taking another sip of his whiskey, Tommy reached around to pick up the backpack that sat beside his chair. It was dirty and the blue nylon material was fading, but it was sturdier than the tatty old bag that Tommy had been using for the past several weeks. It had also belonged to one of the strangers they had shot last night. Tommy tried not to think about that.

The bag had been emptied of any useful supplies the night before, but Tommy opened it and began rustling inside, mentally gauging how best to pack his own gear into it. He unzipped a side pocket and dug down, surprised when his hand met what felt like a sheaf of papers at the bottom of the pocket. Frowning, he grabbed the papers and pulled them out.

It was a stack of fliers, all very cheaply made. They had been printed on plain white paper, each the size of a quarter page and cut by hand. The strange T symbol that they had seen on the black armbands the night before was printed at the top of each flyer, and beneath the symbol, in bold black lettering, was written:

**LOOK FOR THE LIGHT  
>Join the Fireflies<br>Restore America to what is was  
>The military is fighting We the People, <strong>**not**** the infection  
>Join the <strong>**real**** fight  
>Reestablish order and democracy<br>Rise!  
>100.7 FM<strong>

Tommy frowned again, eyes flicking across the text a second time, then back up to the T symbol. Realization slowly dawned.

"It's a firefly," he muttered.

Others glanced casually over at him as they gently swigged their whiskey. "What is?" Big Brian said lightly, lifting his brows.

Tommy looked up and turned the flyer around for everyone to see. He pointed towards the backpack at his feet. "The sign on those armbands. These were in one of their packs. 'Join the Fireflies.' They musta been callin' themselves Fireflies or somethin'."

Brian's expression grew more interested and he held out a hand. Tommy passed him the flyer, but was soon handing out one to everyone gathered in their little group. At first everyone read the flyers in silence, but Annie eventually broke the quiet with a soft snort.

"Whoever designed it ain't ever seen a firefly," she smirked. Others began chortling.

"Dragonfly, maybe," Big Brian grinned, crumpling up the flyer he held and throwing into the fire.

"Rise!" gray-haired Bruce said dramatically, holding up his hands for effect where he sat across the circle from Tommy. "Rise and pretend you're a goddamn bug that little kids catch in jars for fun! No fuckin' thank you." He too crumpled up the flyer he held and tossed it towards the fire.

"But we glow so bright'n pretty!" someone else chuckled.

"Which we thank you for, folks – made y'all real easy to see last night!"

The circle of people were laughing heartily now, some rocking back and forth in their chairs, while others followed Brian and Bruce in throwing their flyers into the fire. Everyone except Tommy. He could not bring himself even to fake a smile or a chuckle and instead stared at the stack of flyers he still held, fighting to stop the shake that he could feel creeping into his chest. He glanced up at Joel and realized with a jolt that his brother was smiling. Joel was not actively joining in the laughter or jokes, but he seemed to have no real objection to them either. Tommy felt sick.

Rather than continue to listen to the laughter, Tommy held up the flyer again and pointed towards the bottom of it.

"Hey Annie," he said, loud enough for her to hear over the joking. "Can you get radio on that thing? '100.7 FM', that sounds like a radio station."

Joel had leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, but his brows drew together now as he frowned at Tommy. "Ain't no radio stations anymore, Tommy," he said in that big-brother-knows-best tone of voice that Tommy hated.

"Just try it, alright?" Tommy continued, an edge creeping into his voice in response to Joel's comment, despite the fact that Tommy was still looking at Annie, as if ignoring his brother.

Annie shared a look with Joel, as if being asked to indulge the whims of a child. But despite her half-smirk, she pressed the Stop button on the CD player and flipped the switch to RADIO on the player. Tommy leaned forward and those gathered around the circle quieted.

At first the player was silent, but Annie cranked up the volume dial and a low crackle began to come through the speakers as the radio attempted to convert the vast empty silence of the airwaves into noise. It was blank static. Annie's face screwed up as she started to turn the tuning dial, searching for 100.7 FM. Unlike before the world had ended, when static would rise and fall as a radio encountered more or less interference from a multitude of stations, the static remained low and constant, even as the dial reached 100.7. There was no one out there broadcasting.

Or if they were, they weren't close enough to pick up here in the suburbs of Charlotte, North Carolina.

Tommy felt both his heart and expression fall in disappointment. Joel, on the other hand, suddenly looked annoyed and embarrassed as people began chuckling again, especially as they began to direct their jokes at Tommy.

"Lookit his face. I think our Tommy's genuinely upset!"

"And he was so hopeful he could be a pretty lil' Firefly too!"

"Hey, mebbe they'll stand a better chance next time if they've got Tommy standin' next to 'em! Ain't none of 'em that could aim for a dime last night!"

"Oh, a challenge!"

"This is gettin' too easy anyhow!"

Joel stood abruptly, cutting off the jokes with a reprimanding look, as if he agreed his kid brother were acting stupidly, but felt obligated to defend him nonetheless.

"That's enough, folks," he rumbled irritably. "Annie, shut that thing off." Annie complied, shooting Tommy an apologetic look as she switched back to the CD player. Joel downed the last of his whiskey, then reached down and snatched the stack of Firefly flyers out of Tommy's hand before his little brother could protest.

"Ain't got nothin' to do with us, Tommy," he growled. "It's either some militia that's tryin' to control people or it's an idealistic bunch of idiots that're gonna get 'emselves killed anyway." Without another word, he threw the flyers into the middle of the fire and turned away, headed towards the big luxury RV that he, Tommy, and Annie had claimed for themselves.

Others in the circle began snickering, as if having just witnessed a family matter that they probably should not have seen, but had found funny nonetheless. Only Annie was staring at Tommy with a gentler expression. She probably thought Joel was right, of course, but at least she seemed sympathetic.

Tommy felt the red-hot of mixed embarrassment and anger creeping up his neck and into his cheeks. As he watched Joel mount the steps to their RV and open the door, Tommy made a decision and stood, scowling.

Annie reached out to stop him with a quiet, "Tommy—" but he jerked his hand away, grabbed his half-full glass of whiskey, and began striding angrily towards the RV.

Joel was sitting at the RV's dinette when Tommy entered the motor home. A jumbled box of mixed bullets sat open on the table, a collection of the miscellaneous ammunition they had taken off the dead last night. Joel had begun sorting through it, but he looked up with an annoyed, questioning expression as Tommy came up the steps into the main part of the RV.

"What?" Joel said suspiciously.

Tommy made sure the door was closed behind him as he set his whiskey down on one of the quartz countertops in the home's small kitchen, then crossed his arms and leaned against the counter.

"What's your problem, Joel?"

"What's _my_ problem?" Joel repeated angrily, leaving off sorting bullets and leaning against the back of the booth behind him.

Tommy gestured towards his brother. "_Every_ time I bring up anythin' even remotely different from what we're doin' now, you act like I'm an idiot. Just for even _thinkin_' about it."

"That's 'cause it's an idiotic thing t'think about, Tommy," Joel said, in that same fucking big brother voice.

"Why?" Tommy snapped back, voice rising. "Cause it's stupid to think about livin' in a way that don't involve killin' others every day? Really, Joel?"

Joel's face scrunched up angrily and he too raised his voice. "You think some goddamn militia's gonna be any different, baby brother? This is _it_, Tommy. If it ain't infected tryin' to kill us, it's other humans."

"I _get_ that, Joel. I ain't afraid to kill somebody if I have to. But this? Jesus, Joel, this is fuckin' huntin' people. That's all we're doin'. We're huntin' people and _laughin'_ about it. Don't that even _bother_ you?"

"We're just takin' care of ourselves first, Tommy. Family first, remember? This is how we do it."

Tommy snorted disdainfully. "This ain't a family no more, Joel. It ain't been a family since Judge died. We're just a pack that kills together now."

"Tommy, that's _enough_."

But it wasn't enough, not for Tommy. He felt the anger boiling within him, furious at Joel's stubbornness, his condescending tone, his refusal to acknowledge the true nature of what their little "family" was doing. Tommy uncrossed his arms and balled his hands into fists, slamming one against the kitchen counter.

"No, it _ain't_ enough, Joel. I'm tired of takin' your shit about this. This ain't _right_, Joel. There ain't a single goddamn thing that makes me feel justified in what we're doin'. _I_ know it and _you_ should too. If Sarah were still here, you'd sure as _hell_ know it."

Fury flashed across Joel's face and he suddenly became very still, both hands braced against the edge of the table he sat at. "What the hell does that mean?" he said, his voice dangerously low.

Tommy knew he had crossed a line, but the anger and frustration that had erupted within him didn't care. He pushed off from the counter and held up three fingers.

"Three years, Joel. She's been dead three years and you haven't mentioned her even once. Not _once._"

"Stop it, Tommy," Joel growled quietly.

Tommy clenched his teeth. "No," he spat back. "You're actin' like she ain't ever existed. You're doin' things you wouldn't be doin' if she were still here. If Sarah were alive—"

Joel exploded out of the dinette booth and grabbed the edge of Tommy's coat, pushing his brother back and slamming Tommy's head against the kitchen cabinets behind him.

"I said _stop it_, Tommy!" Joel yelled, cold fury twisting his features. He was inches away from Tommy's face now and Tommy was suddenly acutely aware of the pistol that Joel kept tucked into his back waistband. He wouldn't use it. He wouldn't. But Tommy had never seen his brother this angry. A part of him, a very small part, began to wonder what Joel would do if pushed any further.

And so Tommy said nothing. For several seconds, he and Joel stood glaring at each other, breathing angrily into each other's faces.

Finally, Joel released Tommy's coat, but he stabbed a finger at his brother's chest. "If you think you can make it out there on your own, then be my guest. Just don't expect me t'come with you."

And still Tommy said nothing. His anger was rapidly being edged out by the cloying creep of fear. The lonely open road spread before his mind's eye like the yawning gates of hell. He let his gaze slip down to the floor.

Snorting in disgust, Joel shoved Tommy against the cabinets again, as if to get his brother as far away from him as possible, then he grabbed the box of bullets from the table and pounded angrily down the steps to the RV door. A spear of sunlight briefly stabbed into the RV's dim interior as Joel opened the door, exited, and slammed it behind him.

Frustrated, angry, and now suddenly exhausted, Tommy snatched his glass of whiskey off the counter and hurled it at the closed door. As the glass shattered and the amber liquid dribbled down the RV's side, Tommy allowed himself to slide to the floor with his back against the lower kitchen cabinets. The shaking began to tremble through his body as he put his head between his knees and fought the tears that would not come.

* * *

><p><strong>Thank you to all who have read and reviewed! It is very heartening as a writer to see that my story had garnered such an audience - I am honored! :) I apologize that I took so much longer to update than I expected. As a brief explanation, I am involved in a search and rescue unit in my area and we launched into one of the longest and biggest searches in my county's history about two days after my last update. It was both physically and mentally exhausting, so it took awhile for me to get started on this latest chapter! In future, if something unexpected like this arises, I will post an update on my Profile page, so check there if you're feeling like I have not updated in awhile.<strong>

**As usual, reviews are much appreciated and Follow the story to receive alerts whenever I update. To my reviewer Rho in particular, I have good news. :) I realized quite awhile ago that I would end up going beyond ten chapters! I started this story expecting the episodic nature, but realized I needed more than ten chapters to fully flesh out the development of Joel and Tommy's relationship over twenty years. At the moment, I've got plans for at least another nine chapters. So your obsession still has plenty of time to run its course. ;)**


	10. Chapter 10 - Safety Off

**As there is darkness, so there is light. ;) This chapter ends on a happier note than the last few - something to look forward to!**

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 10<span>

_June 18, 2017, Night_

"Can I ask you somethin', Tommy?"

Tommy turned to look sideways at Annie, his body heavy with the warm sluggishness of too much alcohol. They sat in separate porch chairs, listening to a summer thunderstorm roll over them. Rain drummed against the roof of the covered porch and every now and again the thunder would boom above them. Lightning lit the sky.

Tommy was not yet properly drunk, but he was happy to let his head rest against the high-backed chair as he absently ran a finger around the edge of his whiskey glass.

"Mm," he hummed, lifting his brows in question. "Go 'head."

Annie had had a fair amount to drink as well, but her expression was far from listless. She was fiddling with a thin black braid that had fallen away from her ponytail and hung beside her ear.

"Who's Sarah?" she asked.

"What?" Tommy replied, the alcohol removing any filter he might once have had and leaving him instead with a dumbstruck frown.

Annie shrugged, not quite nonchalantly. "Joel says the name in his sleep a lot."

Closing his open mouth, Tommy looked away from Annie and cleared his throat. Right. Of course. He knew that Joel and Annie were sleeping together. He had not considered that that meant she too would hear Joel's muttering while he slept, or that she too would see Joel twitch and fidget in his sleep.

"I don't..." Tommy started, feeling his tongue stick lazily to the back of his throat. "I'm not sure it's my place t'say."

"Didn't seem like somethin' he would talk about..."

"No," Tommy said, shaking his head and looking back at Annie with wide eyes. "Don't ask him about it. You'll just set him off." He licked his lips, still absently running a finger around the top of his glass. Yet he pursed his lips and drew a deep breath as he seemed to arrive at a decision. "She...was his daughter."

He was conscious of the fact that his voice had dropped to a whisper, as if fearful that Joel might overhear them. He wouldn't, of course. Through the black rain, Tommy could see the distant silhouettes of his brother and Troy standing watch at the far end of the long driveway that lead up to the brick mansion-turned-bed-and-breakfast. They had been there for an hour already and had made no movement to return to the house. Still, Tommy felt his shoulders instinctively hunch forward like a child telling a deep secret.

Annie frowned. Surprise and pity mixed in her expression, but she quickly pressed her lips together, as if afraid to show her sympathy. "...When?" she asked quietly.

"September 27th, 2013," Tommy said mechanically, picking up his glass and stabbing a finger into the empty air with each syllable, reciting the date that was branded into his memory. He swallowed thickly. "Same day the infection blew up in Austin. Day after Joel's birthday."

"How old?"

"Twelve." She would have been sixteen by now. Christ. "Joel was raisin' her on his own."

Annie leaned forward, propping her elbows up on her knees as she laced her fingers together. "Mind if I ask how she...you know."

"Soldier," Tommy replied, pressing his lips together. "We were tryin' to get to the highway, but they...they weren't lettin' anyone through." God, how long ago that felt. How long since they had dug that small grave with only a knife from the soldier's belt? How long since the moans and cries of that nightmarish triage?

Tommy suddenly felt more sober than he had any right to.

Who the hell was he to drown in his misery when he had never buried a daughter? When he was still alive and good men like Judge and Javier were not? Shit. Even though the miserable self-loathing was the booze talking, Tommy didn't care. He put a hand over his eyes and sighed. When Annie spoke up a minute later, her soft tone made him jump, having almost forgotten she was there.

"I lost my husband," she said quietly. Tommy dropped his hand and looked back up at her in surprise. A flash of lightning briefly lit her face, throwing sharp shadows across her troubled expression.

Tommy blinked slowly, unsure how to respond.

"Teddy was a nurse at Tampa General Hospital," Annie continued, staring blankly into the rain-soaked darkness. "Saw the writin' on the wall sooner than most. Stocked up our apartment and locked the door."

"Didn't last, I take it?" Tommy asked, his tongue thick.

She shook her head. "Coupla weeks and people started gettin' desperate. We were holed up about a month before we started hearin' people breakin' into the apartments around us, the ones our neighbors had abandoned. Finally broke into our place one night. Coupla guys." She paused, licking her lips and breathing deep and deliberate through her nose. "Teddy…Teddy wasn't havin' any of it. He went out to the kitchen."

Her voice caught and she cleared her throat. Yet as she shook her head, the faraway look faded and she sank back into that easy air of indifference.

"They killed him?"

Annie nodded.

Tommy frowned. "But not you?"

She swallowed, dropping her gaze. Her lips pressed together and released a few times, as if she were struggling to form a response. She finally shook her head. "No," she said quietly, staring at her knees. "They found me. But no, they didn't kill me."

The sobering chill stole over Tommy again. "Does Joel know?

She shook her head sharply. "No. And he doesn't need to. Nobody here does. I don't need anybody here thinkin' of me like that. I ain't a victim, at least not any more than anyone else in this fucked up world."

Tommy nodded his understanding. Annie was like that, one moment quiet and speculative, the next spitting out words like she didn't care what others thought. She had a no-nonsense way of simply accepting the way things were without letting herself become a victim of them. Not like Joel. Joel had accepted the way things were too, but he had refused to fight it, instead sinking into the pit that this brutal world had created. For that reason alone, Tommy had been grateful when Annie's attachment to him and his brother had begun to creep towards something more than friendship with Joel. Tommy doubted either of them entertained any particularly romantic notions, but they could depend on one another, and in a world where life could be short and vicious, that was enough.

Yet a question lingered at the back of Tommy's mind as he took a sip of whiskey and let the liquid roll warm and sharp around his mouth. "So why tell me then?"

Annie looked at him with a frown, as if she hadn't considered that, then shrugged and shook her head, looking out towards the long driveway and listening to the patter of rain. "'Cause you aren't like everybody else here. Ain't no black'n white with you. No them or us, or strong or weak. Just…people bein' people. Lotta folks round here, you gotta be careful what you say around them, or else they'll think you can't pull your weight."

"Like Joel," Tommy muttered.

"What?"

Tommy looked up and shrugged as if he had not expected her to overhear him. "Nothin'. Just that you gotta be careful what you say around Joel or else he'll think you're an idiot."

Tommy was surprised by how quickly Annie's expression darkened. She frowned and pursed her lips like a disapproving schoolteacher. "You should give him more credit than that," she said reproachfully.

When Tommy said nothing in reply, she shook her head and looked away, quietly muttering, "You got no idea how much he worries about you."

Tommy narrowed his eyes, frowning at Annie as if trying to decide whether she was mocking him. But when she continued staring at her knees with her brows drawn together, his lips parted and he cocked an eyebrow. "He said that?"

"Not in so many words," Annie answered, shrugging. "But it's plain enough to see if you're lookin'." She paused and sighed, rubbing her eyes sleepily. "He's just tryin' protect you, Tommy."

Tommy pursed his lips. "Ain't the kind of protection I want."

"Ha," Annie suddenly snorted. "Too bad. You think family ever lets us choose what it does or doesn't do for us?" She continued shaking her head like she was dealing with a child. "I grew up with four older brothers. You think I wanted their protection when all four would sit in the row right behind me whenever I went on a movie date? When they pulled me out of the cab of my first boyfriend's truck? Nope. Didn't want a damn thing to do with them. And they didn't care. Family just does what it does."

She lapsed into silence, still shaking her head. Tommy suddenly suspected she and Joel had been talking about him, which caused an awkward mix of embarrassment, irritation, and gratitude to roll through him. He fixed his gaze on the long driveway and responded with only silence.

"Besides," Annie sighed, her voice losing the derisive edge, "if Joel really did lose a daughter, you shouldn't blame him for doin' whatever it takes to protect his kid brother. He's scared to death, Tommy. He won't ever admit it, but he is."

The booze was making Tommy feel sulky and childish and he refused to accept Annie's invitation to acknowledge Joel's humanity. "Seems pretty damn good at killin' people for someone who's scared to death."

"Tommy," Annie said sharply, glaring a warning at him. "If you think a straight face means we ain't all terrified, then you dunno a damn thing. What happened to no black'n white, huh?" She suddenly stood, grabbing her glass and downing the gulp of whiskey that remained. Even with a few drinks in her, her eyes were fiery as she stared down angrily at him.

"Your brother hides it better than most, but he's got just as many nightmares as the rest of us."

And with that she turned and stalked down off the porch and out into the rain, no doubt headed out to join Joel and Troy. Tommy felt the familiar loneliness steal back over him, joining now with a mix of whiskey-induced guilt and irritation.

* * *

><p><em>June 19, 2017, Noon<em>

It looked ready to rain again. The sky was a hazy orange-gray and the air smelled thick with an impending thunderstorm. The ground was still damp from the storm the night before, but misty tendrils rose from the ground as the humid Virginia summer warmed the earth.

They were entering an area of town populated by squat two- and three-story brick houses that had been converted into apartment buildings as the center of Harrisonburg, Virginia had expanded outwards and swallowed the suburbs. Brittle brown grass grew like messy stubble across sidewalks and front stoops.

Tommy could feel the sweat running down from his temples and along the back of his neck, causing his shirt to stick to him. Their party was strung out along the street, all cautiously watching the buildings they passed for any sign of infected or other threats within. Semi-suburbs like this were ideal places to loot: they usually housed more useful supplies than rural areas, but with less risk of encountering the packs of Runners that congregated in areas where buildings were more densely spaced.

Tommy tensed suddenly as Troy, standing at the head of the column, held up his hand. But Troy was cool and collected as he turned back to look at the twenty-some people in their party.

"Alright, folks," he rumbled. "Two to a building. Clear it of infected and any other threats 'fore you start packin' any supplies. Priorities as usual: bottled water, non-perishable food, antibiotics, ammo. In that order." He had held up a finger for each priority, but suddenly held up his thumb as well. "And Big Brian's in sore need of new boots. Men's size 12. Anythin' waterproof."

The others chuckled and began breaking up into pairs, each headed for separate buildings. Joel tapped Tommy's elbow, but before they could turn to start making their way up the street, Tommy felt a hand take hold of his shoulder. He turned to see Troy looking down at him. An ugly red scar twisted across Troy's extended forearm from where the bullet had punched clean through on the night Judge had died, more than a year ago now.

"You gonna be good, Tommy?" Troy asked, his black beard and gravel voice reminding Tommy of a bear, not for the first time.

Tommy nodded curtly, fighting the urge to be defensive. "I'll be fine."

"You had a lot t'drink last night."

"So did Annie."

"Ain't Annie I ever gotta worry 'bout, is it?" As usual, Troy's tone sounded purely factual, like he was reciting from a book. Judge had had a way of sounding concerned about your welfare at the same time that he checked to make sure you were up to a task. Troy just sounded as if he were bluntly holding up a ruler to assess which outcome you were closer to: Success or Failure. There was no in-between.

Tommy bristled. "Nope. Only ever me, ain't it? I said I'll be fine, Troy."

"We'll see," Troy grumbled, frowning.

He turned to leave the two brothers, but he leaned into Joel as he passed him and whispered something. Tommy was quite sure he heard "your responsibility" before Troy started towards a yellow brick house with broken windows on the ground floor. Tommy scowled and began striding up the street before Joel could say anything.

Joel caught up with him as they reached a three-story home with peeling whitewash and red brick beneath. The dusty front windows obscured whatever was within. Neither brother spoke as they waded through the dead overgrown grass that sprawled across the walkway and front stoop. Tommy flipped off the safety on his hunting rifle and Joel swung his up to point at the front door.

The door swung inward when Tommy turned and pushed on the handle. A dark entrance hall opened before them, with an old staircase just inside and a row of mailboxes immediately to the left of the door. Two white metal apartment doors were closed on either side of the hall.

"I'll start here," Joel said, nodding towards one of the apartment doors.

"I'll take upstairs," Tommy mumbled.

Without another word between them, Tommy mounted the staircase and began climbing. A threadbare rug stapled to the steps muffled the sound of his boots. Both apartment doors on the second floor were also closed, so he continued climbing the staircase to the third level, intent upon starting at the top and making his way down. Again, both apartment doors on the upper floor were closed.

He paused at the top of the stairs, listening for the telltale moans or heavy breathing of the tortured infected. But the floor was quiet. Distantly, he could hear Joel's boots scraping around downstairs.

Moving towards the door on his right, Tommy raised his rifle with one hand and reached for the handle with his other. It jiggled and hung loosely from the door as if the lock had been broken. That boded ill. If someone else had already looted this building, then there might be only slim pickings for their party.

Tommy pushed against the door and squinted as the dim natural light of the old building revealed a small living room with a stained leather couch and a dusty flat-screen television. Muddy scuff marks marked the white carpet. Frowning, Tommy stepped into the apartment, swinging the point of his rifle around as he scanned the room.

Suddenly a hand shot out from behind the ajar door and grabbed the barrel of Tommy's rifle. At the same time, a blur to Tommy's right materialized into two fists, one crashing down onto Tommy's trigger hand while the other slammed against his throat, striking his windpipe and making him gag. In an instant, Tommy was rendered both speechless and weaponless, as the person behind the door yanked the rifle out of his surprised grasp. As he staggered back against the wall beside the doorway, gasping for breath, someone quickly closed the door. Five figures suddenly crowded Tommy. Five gun barrels were suddenly pointing straight at him.

"How many of you are there?" someone demanded of him.

Tommy coughed, holding his hands out at chest-level to show he was not a threat. He quickly scanned the faces looking at him. Four men and one woman. Dressed in browns and yellows and grays, muted colors. Dusty and muddy from the road, their faces red from the summer sun. Armbands. Black armbands with white Firefly symbols.

But that wasn't what caused Tommy's mouth to fall open. The woman who stood at the front of the group wore a scowl that dredged up a memory from a hundred years ago. She was thirty-something, short, and square, and kept her black hair tied back in a tight braid.

"_Charlie?_" Tommy breathed in disbelief.

The woman's scowl faltered and her brows drew together in sudden surprise. The men behind her all looked abruptly alarmed as the woman's mouth formed an incredulous O.

"_Tommy?_"

"Holy shit!" Tommy whispered, fighting the urge to smile in front of five gun barrels.

Even dour Charlie allowed herself a disbelieving half-smile. Memories of Huntersville flooded back to Tommy as they stood staring at each other with open mouths. It didn't seem to matter that they had stood on opposite sides of the lines that had been drawn in the quarantine zone in the weeks preceding its downfall; the fact remained that they shared that distant history, that memory of sweet security.

As if remembering herself, Charlie suddenly held up a hand. "Put your guns up, boys. I know him." She shook her head at Tommy, voice losing its growling edge. "What the hell are you doing here, Tommy? How'd you even make it out of Huntersville?"

"Hell, I'd ask you the same," Tommy swallowed, lowering his hands. "We jumped the wall. Were workin' there when the infected got in and jumped the wall to get away."

Charlie nodded, then frowned. "Who's 'we'?"

"Joel and Javier and me."

"And they're part of that group down there on the street? We saw you moving in too late to get out of this place. Who's the rest of the people down there?"

Tommy shook his head. "Joel's here, but not Jav…He died a coupla years ago. Infected."

Charlie paled, but pressed her lips together and nodded. "I'm sorry to hear that." When Tommy's eyes narrowed, she continued. "Honest. We didn't get along, but I wouldn't ever have wished him dead."

Tommy nodded. "The rest of 'em are a group we joined up with a few months after Huntersville." Yet he suddenly snorted and gestured towards Charlie. "But what about you? How'd you get out?"

"Captain Hogan," Charlie said. "He ordered the south gate open when it started looking like the military wouldn't be able to hold them out of the Astro. Didn't want people getting trapped inside the walls." She pursed her lips. "Way I heard it, Hogan took a chopper to Austin and convinced the high muckety-mucks there to take in any refugees from Huntersville that made it to the Austin zone."

"So Austin's still standin'?" Tommy asked hopefully.

Charlie's expression darkened. "No."

Tommy felt his heart drop. She continued. "At least not the military zone. The walls are still there and, last I heard, there were still people there, but it isn't military-run anymore. Turned into some Communist-style conclave, run by the riot leaders that were making trouble in Austin before Huntersville fell. I made it there maybe a week after Huntersville, but got the hell out as soon as the military abandoned the zone. People there weren't too friendly to the extra mouths that FEDRA let in."

"The military _abandoned_ the zone?" Tommy said incredulously. Bonnie's last letter from Austin flashed across his mind.

Charlie nodded and quieted, frowning as if the memory was a particularly haunting one. But she shook her head after a second and her expression grew more serious. "But enough history. The people down below – who are they? Will they trust us because we know you?"

A lead weight dropped in Tommy's stomach. He swallowed, eyes widening as he slowly shook his head. "No," he said, suddenly aware of how loudly they had been speaking. "Keep your voices down. They…they ain't good sorts. Not anymore."

Charlie's eyes narrowed and the brief euphoria at seeing a familiar face turned quickly back to wary suspicion. "What do you mean?"

"They don't leave survivors."

"And you're running with them?"

"It's a long story," Tommy whispered, grimacing. "Wasn't always like this. It's just…Listen, it don't matter. Point is you need to beat it. If they find you here, it'll be like fuckin' Christmas for them."

They suddenly quieted at the sound of gunfire on the street below, rapid and frantic. All exchanged alarmed looks before Tommy pushed past Charlie and the other Fireflies and made his way to a window on the far side of the living room. He looked down on the street. Troy was below them, pointing and gesturing at a building across the way, where several people stood looking in through the front door, waving as if shouting to someone inside. Suddenly a gray-haired blur shot out from within – Bruce, by the looks of it – and the people gathered around the door slammed it shut, just as the first boom of thunder rattled the window panes.

Charlie joined Tommy at the window, peering down. "We checked out that building yesterday," she said, watching as several people below began reaching for Bruce as if he had been injured. "Got to the second floor and there was this croaking sort of noise coming from a couple of the apartments. Like a kind of clicking or croaking or whatever. Thought it might just be a bird or something – didn't sound like any infected I've ever heard – but we figured no point risking it. Must not have been good, whatever it was. He a friend of yours?" She nodded as if indicating Bruce.

"No," Tommy muttered. "He's an asshole." He cleared his throat and left the window, starting back towards the door. He held out a hand towards the Firefly holding his rifle, who handed it back to Tommy after a nod from Charlie. "Listen, Charlie," Tommy said. "You need to leave. Joel's downstairs and I don't know…It's just probably best he don't see you. There's twenty-five of us altogether, including me. They'll be checking buildings, but you should be able to sneak out the back of here. You get the hell out as soon as I'm gone, okay?"

Frowning, Charlie caught Tommy's arm as he started to turn to open the apartment door. She looked stern but confused. "Why don't you just come with us? You clearly don't like these people. Why not come with us?"

Tommy hesitated. He felt his lips part as the possibilities flashed before him. No more hunting people. No more Troy and the others acting like he was a weak-willed idiot. No more drinking at night just to go to sleep. Tommy felt his stomach churn with anticipation.

"Have you heard of the Fireflies?" Charlie continued, seizing on Tommy's silence.

"It's a militia or somethin', right?" Tommy mumbled, not expanding upon how he had come by that knowledge.

Charlie's expression twisted unhappily. "No it isn't," she said. "We're fighting to restore order and democracy. If you haven't seen a zone since Huntersville, then you don't know how bad they are now. They're not like Huntersville. Most zones are under permanent marshal law, each like their own authoritarian city-state."

Tommy frowned. Charlie's revolutionary bent had been clear at Huntersville and her big words sounded a whole heck of a lot like they had back then. "That's what you said about Huntersville," he pointed out.

"This is different. Trust me, Tommy. Huntersville was a paradise. I took it for granted then, but I'd give anything to find a zone like that these days."

Again the temptation rolled in Tommy's stomach. It was the open road that Charlie was proposing, gone from this broken no-longer-family that he had wandered with for three years, but if he left now, it would be with these so-called Fireflies. He would not be alone.

But he would not go. And he knew why.

"I can't," he said quietly, shaking his head as he opened the door and gently freed his arm from Charlie's grasp. Sighing, he gave a simple explanation. "Joel won't go."

Charlie's brows knit together in disappointment, but her expression was more sympathetic than Tommy had expected. She nodded her understanding. "Take care of yourself, Tommy." She sounded like she was saying goodbye to a dear friend.

Grimacing, Tommy nodded back at her and left the apartment, closing the door behind him. He stood at the top of the steps, breathing slowly for a second to steady himself. The invisible weight that had settled over his shoulders seemed to have doubled, but he pressed his lips together and cleared his throat. His expression hardened once again.

He started descending to the second level, but almost jumped when Joel unexpectedly exited one of the two apartments on the floor. Tommy swallowed, then jerked a thumb up the stairs. "Somebody's been here before us. Top floor's already been cleaned out."

Only as he started to give his false explanation did Tommy notice the stony look that Joel wore. Suddenly Joel grabbed the front of Tommy's shirt and pulled him into the apartment Joel had just left. He closed the door behind them and pushed Tommy into the center of another living room.

"Tommy, what the hell are you doin'?" Joel demanded in a sharp whisper. He sounded angry, but there a strained, almost fearful edge to his tone as well.

"What d'you mean?" Tommy stuttered with unconvincing innocence, still shocked at Joel's sudden anger.

Joel jerked a thumb towards the ceiling and the apartment above them. "You know what Troy would do if he knew you were lettin' people walk away?"

Tommy immediately felt himself flush with defensiveness and his façade vanished in an instant. "I got some notion," he growled back, likewise keeping his voice low.

When Joel only threw up his hands as if he could not believe his younger brother's stupidity, Tommy suddenly scowled and pointed towards the window and the street below. "He's _your_ fuckin' friend, Joel. You don't ever seem t'have an issue with anythin' else he does. Why stop now? Go on and tell him your baby brother is fuckin' things up again. Let's see how he takes it. Hell, he'll probably let you pull the trigger if you ask nice enough."

Fury flashed across Joel's face as he took a step towards Tommy, then stopped himself as if remembering the Fireflies above might hear them. He pointed an accusatory finger at Tommy. "You know how many times I've had to cover your ass?"

"Yeah, right," Tommy snorted. "Thanks, Joel. I really appreciate you makin' it easier for me to stay with this pack of fuckin' people hunters." Before Joel could interject again, Tommy spread his arms angrily. "Do you even know who they fuckin' are? It's Charlie, Joel. Charlie from Huntersville. Her and a bunch of those Fireflies. You want me to just hand them over to Troy?"

"I know who they are," Joel answered disdainfully, waving the explanation away. "I heard the whole goddamn conversation. And it don't change the fact that Troy'll have every reason to call you traitor if he ever finds out."

"Are you gonna tell him?"

Joel glared at his younger brother, but the look was half-angry, half-offended. "Course I'm not gonna fuckin' tell him," he spat.

"Then we got nothin' more t'say," Tommy growled, pushing past Joel and jerking open the apartment door.

Tommy made no effort to quiet his steps as he pounded angrily down the stairs towards the bottom floor. Behind him, Joel followed him out into the hallway, casting an unhappy glance up the stairs to the top level before turning down. By the time he had caught up to Tommy, they were already outside and back on the main street. They could see Troy and Bruce and the others still gathered in the distance.

Scowling, Tommy turned away from them and started walking towards the next apartment building in the long line of former houses that lined the street. Joel hesitated, but eventually followed Tommy without a word.

Both brothers worked in angry silence as they broke the rusty handle off of the front door of the next building and made their way inside. Indeed, they hardly looked at each other, let alone spoke, as they again split up and began searching separate floors. Upstairs, Tommy could hear cupboards slamming below him and drawers hitting the floor as Joel furiously rifled through the ground floor apartment. Tommy worked with little more decorum, barely paying attention to his search as his temper burned. Their silent tantrum war was cut short only by the crack of gunfire, again out on the street.

Tommy froze in the middle of loading several cans of tomato soup into his pack and stood listening, eyes wide. The shots were erratic and varied, some louder than others as if fired from different guns. It was not the intense gunfire that typically accompanied the discovery and dispatch of infected. It was a firefight, the air punctuated by the unpredictable crack of bullets as people dove in and out of cover.

Heart suddenly pounding, Tommy zippered his pack closed and threw it over a shoulder as he grabbed his rifle and checked there was a cartridge in the chamber. Joel was coming out of the lower apartment with a similar look of alarm just as Tommy came loping down the stairs.

"Gunfight?" Tommy asked breathlessly.

"Yeah," Joel nodded. He held his rifle ready. "C'mon."

Their argument forgotten, the brothers opened the front door and cautiously eased out onto the building's front stoop. In the direction from which they had come, they could see people crouching next to abandoned cars and behind garbage cans. Tommy's heart sunk as he recognized many of their own party, all gesturing and pointing guns towards the building in which he had found Charlie and the Fireflies.

As a second peel of thunder rolled across the orange-gray sky, a figure suddenly rose from beside the corner of the old house. Tommy glimpsed a black Firefly armband. He watched as the man turned and began sprinting for the backyard, while others out on the street rose from crouched hiding places and gave chase. Tommy recognized Troy and two men named Kester and Paul. As they rounded the corner, all three levelled rifles at the fleeing Firefly and fired almost at once. The man with the black armband dropped to the ground.

Beside him, Tommy felt Joel move as if to begin jogging towards the fight, but Tommy grabbed his brother's arm, scowling.

"They're gonna die anyway, Joel," Tommy said darkly. "You really gotta help?"

Joel glared at Tommy and jerked his arm away, but he did at least stop. Tommy returned the glare, but looked back to the distant fight after a second.

An odd sense of detachment settled over him as he watched people dodge and duck in and out of cover, shouting, waving, aiming, sprinting, falling. It was like he was watching a movie, standing there at a distance and observing the "family" he knew trying to kill the strangers in black armbands that he cared more about. Part of him wanted to start running towards the firefight, waving his hands and trying to shout some sense into both sides. Part of him wanted to find Troy and take their fearless leader to the ground, or at least try, since the bear of a man would likely win. Part of him just wanted to sit down and put his head in his hands.

He did none of these things. His face felt dead, his eyes dry and sunken. He could feel his chest rise and fall with each breath, but he felt like he was barely breathing. Bitter irony soured his mouth as he watched the people he had tried to save mowed down by the people he was supposed to be calling his own.

Two hunters broke cover and charged the apartment building, each holding pistols as they leaned into one of the shattered ground story windows and began firing at someone within. Suddenly Tommy saw a figure climb through a window on the other side of the house, fleeing the fire being rained down within. As the Firefly vaulted down from the window and hit the dead overgrowth below, Tommy recognized the square figure and black braid. Charlie.

A salvo of shots cracked across the street. Charlie jerked and tumbled forward into the brittle grass.

Tommy turned from the gun battle and started walking away.

It was a good minute before Joel followed. When his brother did finally catch up to him, Tommy was sitting on the back stoop of the apartment building they had just been searching. A backyard of dead azaleas sprawled around him. He sat with his elbows on his knees, face pale as he stared down at the black pistol he was turning over and over in his hands. He was flicking the safety on and off, his expression wooden and blank.

At first Joel came into the backyard with his lips pressed together and his brows drawn tight as if ready to berate his brother, but his steps stopped abruptly as he caught sight of Tommy. His face slackened and the tension in his shoulders released.

"…Tommy?" Joel said tentatively.

Vaguely, Tommy considered that he could not recall when he had last heard his brother sound so gentle. But he continued staring at the pistol, drawing deep, deliberate breaths.

"Tommy," Joel repeated. He gently lowered his rifle and let the butt drop to the earth, then lay the long gun in the grass. He lifted his hands and started taking slow steps towards his brother. "Tommy. Tommy, look at me."

Flick. Safety on. Flick. Safety off.

"Tommy. How 'bout you give me that, okay? Tommy?"

Flick. Safety on. Flick. Safety off.

The crunch of dead grass caused both of them to look up as Annie suddenly appeared around the side of the building from the direction of the street, as if having spotted them and followed to see what they were up to. Her expression was quizzical at first, then concerned. She looked at Joel, but her eyes flickered briefly to Tommy as if silently asking Joel what the hell was going on. Tommy sighed and returned his gaze to the gun he held.

"Tommy," Joel tried again, ignoring Annie's arrival. "I'm just…I'm just gonna get that gun from you, okay?" He was only a few steps from his brother now.

"Relax, Joel," Tommy said abruptly, his tone like lead. "I'm not gonna shoot myself."

"Okay…" Joel replied slowly, clearly skeptical.

Tommy suddenly shifted and Joel visibly flinched, as if expecting the worst. But Tommy only held up his pistol and popped out the magazine, tossing it at Joel.

Joel caught it as he and Annie exchanged looks. She slowly lowered the AK-47 she held propped against her hip. "What's goin' on, Tommy?" she said.

"I'm leavin'," he replied without ceremony. He was staring at the grass at his feet as he said it, but he glanced up a second later and was surprised by how light the air felt with that revelation hanging over it. He cleared his throat, nodding as if reassuring himself. "I'm leavin'."

"What d'you mean you're leavin'?" Joel repeated, expression confused.

Tommy stood from the back porch stoop, brushing dust from his jeans. "I mean I ain't stayin'. I can't keep doin' this." He paused, frowning as if speaking more to himself than Joel or Annie. "I _won't_. I could keep on, you know. Just huntin' people like we have been. Hell, I'm a pretty damn good shot. I could keep doin' it."

He shook his head, his expression suddenly serious as he looked at Joel. "But I don't sleep, Joel. I barely eat unless you count the booze. I don't wanna see your face ever and I want to lay into just about everybody else. If I ain't killed by infected or by one of our own people, I'll end up puttin' a gun to my head sooner or later. Or else drinkin' myself into an early fuckin' grave."

He felt the muscles in his jaw tighten. "I won't do it anymore."

Joel blinked, lips parting. He seemed unsure how to respond, which surprised Tommy. Joel's temper was so near the surface these days. Annoyance and anger were all Tommy ever expected from his brother, and when he didn't choose to chase his misery away with the whiskey, Tommy usually returned the sentiment in kind.

Both brothers stood staring at each other now with flinty expressions but haunted eyes. Tommy swallowed.

"I'm leavin'. I'm askin' you to come with me. But I'm tellin' you, I'm leavin' regardless."

Neither moved as they watched one another, Annie forgotten. They had had staring contests before, angry exchanges that involved little more than steely glares and silence as each dared the other to blink first. Joel usually won. But Tommy's expression was not defiant now. It was tired, brittle, pleading.

It was this or nothing.

Joel blinked first. For the first time in a long time, Tommy thought his brother looked weary. Yet in the next instant, Joel turned away and Tommy's heart dropped, the prospect of being alone on the road immediately making his stomach roll with fear. But he pressed his lips together to keep his composure as he began to envision the reality of leaving Joel behind, of abandoning his brother, likely forever.

Joel grunted as he bent and retrieved his rifle from where it lay in the grass. When he straightened, he slung the gun's strap over a shoulder and nodded deftly at Annie.

"You comin' with?" he rumbled.

Her mouth opened and closed, then she nodded slowly. "Guess I am."

It was Tommy's turn to blink now. Through the fog of trepidation that had begun to cloud his thoughts, he looked up and wrinkled his brow at his brother.

"Wait," he said cautiously. "You mean you're comin' with me?"

Joel frowned and fixed Tommy with a look, as if it were a stupid question.

"Course I am, Tommy."

He said it like there could never have been any alternative. He said it like the big brother that Tommy had once looked up to, not like the one he had grown to fear. He said it and Tommy's breath caught in the back of his throat.

And just like Joel, without pausing to dwell on sentiment or expressions of gratitude, he grabbed Tommy's and Annie's shoulders and started pushing them ahead of him. "C'mon. Better get a move on before Troy or the others notice we're missin." Tommy felt Joel press something hard into his palm. He looked down to see the loaded pistol magazine.

"You'll need that, baby brother."

Tommy allowed himself a half-smile and nodded. As all three began jogging away from the bloody hunting ground on the street behind them, the first fat raindrops started pattering across the rooftops and the smell of warm, wet asphalt filled the air.

* * *

><p><strong>So passes what I think was probably the darkest period for the brothers, but especially for Tommy. Plenty of trials remain, but as I told one reviewer via private message last week, Tommy and Joel are still many years from their eventual estrangement. In many ways, they are both still figuring out where they fit into this brave new world. Tune in next time as Tommy and Joel re-learn how to depend on one another when they encounter not one, but two new threats. Dramatic enough for you? ;)<strong>

**As usual, thank you to all my readers and reviewers! For signed-in reviewers, know that I do usually try to reply to reviews, sometimes with extra tidbits of what is to come. ;) Feel the temptation! Follow the story to receive regular chapter alerts and check my profile for status updates between chapters. Thanks!**


	11. Chapter 11 - Independence Day

Chapter 11

_July 2, 2017, Afternoon_

"Jesus, someone take a picture."

Annie looked up over the gas station shelves and shot Joel a mock glare as she fought to swallow the mouthful of Twinkie that was making her cheeks bulge. Joel's arms were crossed as he stood watching her, a half-smile tugging at one side of his face.

"Outta luck, Texas," Annie gasped once she had cleared her mouth enough to get out a few words. "No more cameras. That's one good thing the apocalypse did for us: no more smart phones or fuckin' blackmail photos." She smirked as she wiped crumbs from her lips.

"Sounds like someone got caught in a few of those," Tommy said as he tossed an unopened bottle of Gatorade at Annie. "Here, try that. Better for washin' out the taste of diesel than a coupla Twinkies."

Joel stood there shaking his head as Annie washed down the Twinkies with Gatorade, in a fine show of American cuisine.

"God," Annie said, coughing in between gulps. "If this truck is your guys' idea of a chariot rescue, I'm really just fine walkin' if it means no more siphoning fuckin' diesel."

"Spoken like a true lady."

Annie rolled her eyes at Tommy.

It was good having her along. She had a wicked sense of humor when she wanted to and she seemed to have grown snarkier since their departure from the hunters, as if consciously attempting to bridge the yawning silence that still existed between Tommy and Joel. At least the silence between them was now more awkward than angry, as if neither particularly wanted to discuss the past, but weren't sure what to discuss for the future either. At such times, Annie's gentle jibes were a godsend. Tommy could not yet bring himself to laugh or even chuckle, but he noticed both he and Joel smiled more now, even if it wasn't at each other.

"Okay, c'mon," Joel grunted. He bent over and put a foot against a hand-truck that they had loaded with several dusty cases of Dr. Pepper, Sprite, Gatorade, and Powerade. The gas station had seen surprisingly little looting compared to others they usually came across. Most food of any substance was long gone, as was any bottled water, but prior looters had not apparently thought to check the back office, where several stacks of sports drinks and soda had been hidden by the manager's desk.

Tommy bent to heft up a box of instant Cup-A-Noodles and Annie lifted two bulging plastic bags full of travel-sized sunscreen, shampoo and soap, chap stick, alcohol swabs, and other personal care paraphernalia. Together, the three of them headed for the front of the station.

Joel paused at the double glass doors, casting a wary eye out to the street beyond. A low building with a broad green roof squatted across the road and a derelict McDonald's sat beside it. Adjoining the gas station was a mechanic's garage with an old diesel Dodge Ram parked out front. The truck's hood and tailgate were both open.

"Let's make this quick," Joel rumbled. He pulled his pistol from his back waistband and pushed open the door.

Eyes sweeping the abandoned street, all three quickly crossed the space between the gas station entrance and the Dodge, making for the open tailgate. Half a dozen big yellow jugs of cooking oil that they had found in the McDonald's were already loaded and pushed up against the back of the truck cab. Without pausing, Joel began hefting their cases of drinks and food into the back of the truck. Tommy handed Joel the box of instant noodles.

"Why again are we haulin' cooking oil?" Annie whispered, eyeing the yellow jugs with a dubious expression.

"Diesel engines'll run on just about any oil you put in 'em," Tommy answered.

"So I was forced to choke on diesel because…"

"Because it's still better than cookin' oil if you can get it," he grinned. "And it don't go bad like regular gas."

Annie's face remained skeptical.

"We ready to do this?" Joel interrupted, scanning the empty street again. Tommy grunted his reply and Annie answered by swinging her two plastic bags over the side of the truck and immediately starting towards the driver's side door.

Leaving Joel to finish loading, Tommy swung around the front of the truck and ducked under the open hood. The engine block was still in good condition, if a little dusty from disuse. The new battery that they had requisitioned from the mechanic's garage would probably need to be recharged, but with any luck, it had stayed dry and warm enough over the years that it was not completely dead. They would find out soon enough.

Tommy felt the truck shift as Annie opened the driver's door and crawled in. He popped out the prop stick and slowly lowered the hood, releasing it only when it was inches from being closed. It fell into place relatively quietly, but the street still echoed with the sound. A second later, he heard the tailgate slam shut as Joel finished loading the back. Tommy lifted his brows, listening.

Nothing.

At least, not yet.

Swallowing as Joel joined him at the hood, Tommy cast an edgy look at his brother and was little reassured to see Joel return the expression. Once upon a time, Tommy had been a mere $500 away from being able to trade in his old Jeep for a diesel truck like this. He had spent two years saving. He had planned to buy a big four-door with an extended bed, so he could use it for work and for driving Sarah around, maybe even his own family one day.

Now, he could only dread how loud this sucker was going to be if they managed to get it running.

"Put it in neutral, Annie," Joel rumbled quietly as Annie rolled down the window and both brothers braced themselves against the hood. "We should be able to get you down onto the street, but turn hard to line yourself up and brake as soon as you're pointin' downhill, got it?"

"Sure thing, boss," Annie nodded through the dusty windshield.

The engine suddenly clunked as Annie shifted into neutral and released the brake. Immediately Joel and Tommy heaved against the front of the truck, pushing it to roll it backwards down the slight incline from the garage to the street.

The tires were soft from four years of sitting idle, but still had enough pressure in them to creak down towards the street as Tommy and Joel pushed. The road was built on a hill, shallow but long. Hopefully long enough to give the natural turn of the truck's engine enough momentum to recharge the dead battery. As the rear of the truck neared the roadway, Annie cranked the wheel hard left, turning and forcing the back bumper to point uphill. She hit the brakes and came to a halt with a soft squeal.

Tommy and Joel instantly paused to listen.

Still nothing.

Yet.

"Okay, Annie," Joel said quickly as they approached the open driver's window. "Give it a whirl."

All three held their breath as Annie leaned forward and turned the key in the ignition. The engine immediately gave a husky wheeze and cough, attempting to fire to no avail. But Tommy's face lit up. The battery still had some juice in it, else only dead silence would have accompanied turning the key.

Joel thumped the hood triumphantly and nudged Tommy's elbow, nodding towards the rear of the truck. They moved quickly, circling around to the tailgate and immediately shoving their shoulders against it to start pushing the truck downhill. Tommy's heart beat against his eardrums as he held his breath under the exertion.

Slowly the truck began to roll forward. The hill was not steep enough to afford them much immediate momentum, but it picked up pace as they continued to push. The engine wheezed again as Annie spun the key. Still it only choked and sputtered without catching.

"Careful not to flood—" Joel started to call out to Annie, but he was interrupted by a sudden strange and alien sound behind them.

Four years had honed Tommy's instincts to instantly recognize the screams and desperate gasping of a Runner, or the tortured moans of a Stalker. Even if he still inwardly cringed at such noises, his muscles moved almost of their own accord, dropping all else and instantly bringing a firearm or hand weapon to bear. His mind would go blank and brace itself against fear, instantly cool and clear as adrenaline flooded his system.

Not so now. The sound that rang out behind them was unfamiliar, a strange, high-pitched croaking, coming in short, repetitive bursts like birds calling to one another. Tommy frowned and caught sight of Annie's face in the side mirror of the truck, looking back at them.

"What the _hell?_" she suddenly said, twisting abruptly to look out the back of the cab.

Tommy and Joel glanced at each other, then left off pushing to look behind them. Fear and nausea clenched around Tommy's stomach.

A monster was lurching towards them. Not an infected person, not a human driven mad. A monster.

Instantly, Tommy's mind conjured an image of an old Twilight Zone episode they had watched as boys with Grandpa Jim. The entire episode had shown hands and bodies, but never faces, as a hospital full of doctors and nurses had prepared to remove the facial bandages from a woman supposedly horribly deformed since birth. When the bandages had been removed to show a beautiful young woman, the doctors and nurses had been horrified at the sight of her, as the cameras finally panned to show that everyone else had ugly pig-like faces. Grandpa Jim had gotten in trouble with mom after that, as four-year-Tommy had had nightmares of people with pig heads for a week.

The same sense of horror now clenched at Tommy's chest as he stared at the mutant thing staggering towards them.

Folds of fungus had completely engulfed the monster's head like a warty gray underwater plant, massive and clammy and translucent pink at the tips. Nothing remained of the face – no eyes, no nose – save a gaping hole where once had been a mouth and now was only a slavering maw of cracked and broken teeth. The thing was a hundred feet away, moving with lurching, crooked motions, arms held before it as it croaked its clicking rhythm. A tattered shirt and pants clung to it, but even from this distance, Tommy could see fleshy branches of pale white fungus poking out from between the holes and rips in the fabric.

Tommy stumbled back a step as Joel suddenly shoved him, shaking him from his horrified reverie.

"Tommy!" Joel growled, fear in his voice.

Heart suddenly racing, Tommy launched himself at the back of the truck. Together, he and Joel forced all of their weight against the tailgate, urging the truck down the hill with as much speed as they and gravity could muster. The croaking grew louder behind them.

Again the truck wheezed as Annie tried the key, her eyes wide in the rear view mirror.

"Aw c'mon, you fuckin' piece of junk!" Tommy yelled angrily, slamming a fist against the back bumper. "Jesus Christ, c'mon! _C'mon!_"

He risked a glance behind them. Despite its lurching gait, the monster was gaining with terrifying speed. How it could possibly see them, Tommy had no idea, but it was making a beeline straight for the dead truck. Tommy could feel the shake trembling through his arms as a dozen possibilities raced through his mind. If the thing got much closer, they would have to retrieve their rifles from the bed of the truck. If they acted now, Annie might even have time to get out and train her AK-47 on the monster, which would do more damage than all the rest of their firearms combined. Yet even as these contingencies galloped through Tommy's mind one after the other, an even more terrifying thought occurred to him. He couldn't tell if the fungal bloom over the creature's head was hard or soft. Would a gun even do any damage? What if it didn't? Holy Christ.

They would be stranded in the middle of a street with an armored, invincible monster bearing down on them.

Joel must have thought the same because he was wasting no time to retrieve the rifles in the bed of the truck. Instead, his face was turning red as he heaved desperately against the truck's tailgate.

It was gaining momentum, bringing Tommy and Joel to a slow trot.

The croaking was only a dozen paces away now.

Screw it. This goddamn rusting hunk of dead metal was going to get them killed if they didn't abandon it. They could outrun the monster that pursued them, just grab their guns and go, fuck the goddamn supplies. What the hell had they been thinking anyway, trying to get a truck running when the noise would draw every infected within a five block radius? Barely two weeks had they been gone from the hunters and they were already growing careless without the company of—

The engine roared to life.

Tommy's heart leapt as he realized he had been holding his breath.

"Go!" Joel suddenly bellowed. "Annie! Go! Go! Go!"

In an instant, Joel had his boot up on the back bumper and was heaving his other leg over the tailgate. He was a blur as he tumbled into the piles of Gatorade and soda, cursing as he tried to right himself.

Tommy felt the truck shudder beneath his fingertips as Annie threw it into first gear. The engine revved as she hit the accelerator. All that remained now was to release the clutch.

Before the truck could take off without him, Tommy hoisted a boot up onto the bumper and prepared to hurl himself into the truck bed. He felt the truck lurch forward just as his second boot left the pavement.

But even as Tommy was swinging his leg over the tailgate, he felt hands – no, claws – close around his ankle. Fingers like vices and broken nails that he could feel digging into his skin, even through the denim jeans he wore. Eyes wide, Tommy twisted back to look down at his leg.

"Holy _fuck_! Joel!"

The monster had a hold of him. He could see nothing but the mottled gray fungal plates that had engulfed its head. Nothing but that and the gaping chasm of its mouth, all blood and broken teeth and pale fungus clinging to the lips.

Spurred by fear and adrenaline and a sudden dizzying refusal to die at the hands of an infected only weeks after escaping the hunters, Tommy jerked his leg, trying to loosen the creature's grip upon it. When the infected's fingers only tightened, Tommy kicked out instead. The heel of his booth slammed against the center of the fungal mass, driving the monster back a pace as it croaked in distress. Some instinct at the back of Tommy's mind processed the fact that the fungal plates were firm but not hard; they had given way beneath his boot. Not armor.

Suddenly, Tommy felt arms wrap around his shoulders. Even without turning, he knew it was Joel, attempting to pull him out of the creature's grasp. But Tommy shook his head, sweaty fingers clinging desperately to the slick metal tailgate as he continued to kick at the infected, frantically shaking his leg to prevent the thing from having time to bite.

"Shoot it! Shoot it!" he was yelling. "Shoot the damn thing!"

He was still staring wide-eyed at the infected, but he felt Joel release him, even as the truck lurched forward again as the clutch caught. The truck kicked and gurgled a few times as Annie fought to find the sweet spot between acceleration and releasing the clutch. Yet even as the vehicle bucked, the infected held fast, trying with desperate frenzy to sink its teeth into Tommy's flailing leg.

A fat black barrel suddenly entered Tommy's vision from the side and, a second later, a flash of muzzle fire and the deafening blast of a shotgun made him to cringe away. In an instant, he was deaf to the world, but relief flooded through him as he watched the ghastly fungal mass of the infected's head explode in a spray of blood and bone. The claws around his leg let go. The truck kicked forward and started accelerating.

And just like that, the monster was a bloody mess at the center of an abandoned road, rapidly shrinking into the distance.

Tommy collapsed into the bed of the truck, chest heaving as he fought to control the adrenaline still coursing through his body. With a grunt, he let his head flop back into a bag of Hostess cupcakes and allowed himself just a moment to cherish being alive.

Although his ears still rang from the shotgun that had discharged beside his head, Tommy felt the bed of the truck shudder beneath him as Joel started moving. Tommy opened his eyes. His brother was crouched over his leg, the one the infected had been attempting to bite.

"Jesus, you're bleedin', Tommy," Joel muttered, voice shaking as he pulled up the bottom edge of Tommy's jeans.

Pulse suddenly quickening again, Tommy propped himself up on his elbows, looking down at his ankle as Joel rolled back denim that was stained blood red. Jesus, had Tommy not felt teeth find skin in the midst of his adrenaline-fueled struggle? His ankle didn't even hurt. His lips parted and his eyes were wide as he looked down at his brother, breathlessly waiting for Joel to tell him that it had finally happened. That one of them had finally been bit.

"Joel..." Tommy said tentatively.

His brother's face was slack and pale, his breathing tight. Mouth open, Joel was wordlessly wiping blood away from Tommy's bleeding ankle. As his fingers grew slick, Joel started blinking rapidly.

"Joel..." Tommy said again, bile creeping into the back of his throat.

"It's..." Joel said slowly, breathing labored. "It's birdshot." He was still blinking repeatedly, as if to reassure himself that he was truly seeing what he thought he saw.

"What?"

"It's birdshot."

"Y-...you're sure?"

Joel swallowed and nodded, voice still shaking but more confident now. "It's birdshot. There's no bite marks."

Tommy was still a moment, disbelieving. Then the tension in his entire body released and his head lolled as he flopped back down against the pile of Hostess cupcakes. "Shit," he whispered with breathless relief.

Joel rolled away from Tommy's leg and set his back against the tailgate, forearms on his knees as he slowly wiped his bloody fingers across his pants. His mouth was still open, face sallow with lingering fear.

As the adrenaline receded and the fatigue set in, Tommy ran a hand across his face and looked up at the summer sky above them. It was blue despite the humid haze. Streaks of clouds like long ghostly fingers. Beautiful.

"Jesus, Joel," Tommy said suddenly. "You fuckin' shot me, you jerk."

Joel's head snapped up with a frown, only to find Tommy looking at him with a stupid half-grin. Joel's expression loosened and he slowly smiled, snorting. Then, as both brothers sat staring at one another, sweat beading their brows and exhaustion stretched across the lines of their faces, each slowly began to shake with silent, relieved laughter.

* * *

><p><em>July 4, 2017, Early Evening<em>

Tommy felt his eyelids growing heavy as he watched fencepost after fencepost fly by and fade into the distance. To the east, wide fields of long grass and sporadic ash and oak trees spread away over a hill, cut off from the road by two parallel fence lines, one a rickety old barbed wire contraption, the second rusting chain link. But to the west, where the shadows grew long beneath the setting sun, were quaint little houses of brick and field stone, their lawns long overgrown.

Many of them had hand-painted messages scrawled across their fronts to warn away intruders. _TRESSPASSERS WILL BE SHOT. All looters killed. Stay away. ARMED._

Tommy blinked sleepily as he turned to look at the houses. Vaguely, he wondered how many still had people in them, and for those that didn't, where the people had gone. Or rather, how many were still alive. It seemed this plague had come to every corner of the country, maybe even the world. In nearly four years, they had made their way from Austin through the Deep South and now finally into the eastern panhandle of West Virginia. Nowhere had been untouched.

"You think it was just one of 'em?" Joel asked abruptly, shaking Tommy from his thoughts. "That thing back in Shenandoah?"

Tommy glanced sidelong at his brother. Both sat with their backs against the cab of the truck, gently rocking with the vehicle as Annie drove.

Brow wrinkling, Tommy said, "You mean like some kinda mutant?"

Joel nodded.

Tommy paused for a second, frowning. He let his gaze slide down to the dirty rags they had wrapped around his ankle. Once the adrenaline had subsided, the pain had set in, and even now his ankle still burned from the handful of pellets Joel had pulled from it. As he stared at the makeshift bandages, Tommy slowly shook his head.

"No," he replied. "No, I don't think so."

Joel lifted his brows in question.

"When we were in Harrisonburg," Tommy continued, sighing, "...before everythin' happened...Charlie said she and her crew had heard a croakin' sorta noise from one of the buildings on that street. Said they left it alone, just in case. It was the same one that Bruce came flyin' outta like he had the devil on his heels." He frowned again and shrugged. "Figure there's a good chance it was the same sorta thing."

Joel made a disbelieving noise and shook his head. They had spoken very little of the close call they had had in small town Shenandoah, Virginia, or of the new breed of infected that they had encountered there. For Tommy's part, at least, his nights had been filled with a new kind of nightmare. Sleep brought only dreams of cold, clammy hands with broken nails or nightmares of kicking the monster only to have his boot and leg swallowed by the gaping maw of blood and fungus. At such times, Tommy would wake with his ankle on fire and sweat drenching his shirt.

Sighing, Tommy looked out towards the fields on the east side of the road. They had made only slow progress in the few days since they had brought the old Dodge back to life, sticking to small roads and low speeds lest the truck's soft tires take more than they could handle. According to a map they had found at the gas station, they expected to hit a place called Hagerstown, Maryland sometime tomorrow, where they could link up with a road that would take them west, away from the dangerous urban areas around Washington DC and Baltimore.

It felt odd to be in a moving vehicle. It was astounding how quickly the world had grown when everything that had once made it seem so small – cars, airplanes, phones, internet – had ceased to exist. To watch the world go by, even at a mere 25mph, felt almost dizzying after years of being on foot.

"I wonder where they are," Tommy said suddenly. "Troy and the others, I mean."

Joel looked sharply at his brother, eyes narrowing. When Tommy said no more, Joel gruffly muttered, "It don't matter."

Still Tommy did not elaborate and Joel's expression turned suspicious. "Why do you care anyway? Thought you hated 'em."

Tommy frowned and pressed his lips together unhappily, refusing to look at his brother. "I didn't hate 'em, Joel. I hated what we were doin'." He shook his head as he watched houses crawl by. "That don't change the fact that we spent three years dependin' on 'em to have our backs, knowin' they were countin' on us to have to theirs. I just…"

Miss them, is what he wanted to say. In an absurd, illogical way, Tommy missed their family-turned-hunters. Maybe it was easier to remember the good parts now that he no longer daily faced all the bad. Or maybe it was simply that this world fostered a different sense of what exactly good and bad was, and it was easier to take one alongside the other. Either way, the world seemed lonelier without Troy or Big Brian or Robin. Staying had not been option for Tommy, but somehow he still missed that familiarity.

"I just…was thinkin' about the 4th of July last year," he lied. "When Robin found those stupid pop-its she kept throwin' at everybody. It's the 4th today, you know. Happy Independence Day, I guess." Joel only grunted. He didn't like to hear about the days that Tommy continued to record. It was as if Joel _wanted_ time to blur, to forget the dates that had been significant in a world that no longer existed. He looked away without another word.

They traveled in silence for several minutes, simply listening to the growl of the truck's engine and the gentle rumble of the road as they watched houses and fence posts pass by on either side of them. When the truck began to slow, however, Tommy looked up sleepily. He was jolted into wakefulness a second later when Annie thumped against the glass at the back of the truck cab. She slid open one of the two windows.

"Look alive, boys," she said sharply.

Instantly, Joel and Tommy twisted around to look through the windshield to the road that sprawled ahead of them. Long shadows stretched across the asphalt, but the early summer evening still had plenty of light. A group of vehicles blocked the road, all massed between several houses and parked side by side. They had come across road blocks before, where either people had abandoned their cars to deadlocked traffic or an accident had never been cleared from the roadway, but country roads were almost never a problem. It was the big highways that they avoided.

Eyes narrowing, Joel turned and picked up two of the rifles that lay in the truck bed. He handed one to Tommy, then carefully stood, balancing against the sway of the moving truck. Tommy twisted, gingerly placing his weight on his hands and knees and avoiding jarring his injured ankle too much. He pushed himself up to stand beside his brother, leaning against the cab's roof for balance rather than place any weight on his bad leg.

As they neared the cluster of vehicles, Tommy noted that all seemed to be painted dark Army green.

"Military," he muttered to Joel.

Joel nodded. "But old or recent?"

As if having heard Joel's question, the driver-side door suddenly opened on one of the big transport rigs with a camouflaged canvas back. A man leaned out the door, a hand held over his brow. A second later, the man started yelling and waving, though what exactly he said, Tommy could not hear.

"Turn us around, Annie!" Joel suddenly growled, leaning down to speak through the cab window. The road block was still several hundred feet away; they could turn around and be gone before—

Out of nowhere, soldiers in blue FEDRA uniforms and bulletproof vests began pouring out of several houses, not only those next to the roadblock, but also those nearer to where Tommy, Joel, and Annie approached in the old Dodge. At first, Tommy thought they had driven straight into an ambush, but with the scattered trickle of soldiers jogging out onto front lawns, he guessed instead that this was a military convoy that had simply paused to search some of the homes for supplies.

It didn't matter. There were probably thirty soldiers total. All wore body armor. All carried assault rifles. All were now pointing said rifles at the Dodge.

"Shit," Joel hissed beside Tommy as Annie pulled the truck to a slow stop.

"What's the plan, Joel?" Tommy whispered.

Both brothers had brought their rifles up to their shoulders as the first soldiers had begun emerging from the houses, but they stood now, leaning against the cab of the truck, aiming roughly in the direction of the nearest houses, though there were far too many targets to cover at once.

Sweat was beading on Joel's brow and he was breathing fast. "Just…" he growled. "Just…"

"_Lower your guns, civilians! Now!"_

A voice crackled over a blow horn from the direction of the military trucks and Tommy spotted one of the soldiers approaching up the street holding the horn to his mouth. The soldier was tall but broad, and although his hair was covered by a helmet, the thick stubble that clung to his jaw was silver. He wore body armor, but the sleeves of his blue uniform glinted with the golden acorn insignia of a Major.

Yet Joel did not lower his rifle. On the road and across the lawns nearest them, soldiers pointing assault rifles were creeping closer and closer to the truck.

"_I said lower your weapons!" _the officer with the blow horn ordered again.

"We don't want any trouble," Joel suddenly called out, still staring down the barrel of his rifle. "We're just tryin' to leave the area. Won't cause you no trouble. Just let us be on our way."

"_Afraid we can't do that, son_," the blow horn crackled back. The officer was near the truck now. Although he had been holding a pistol aimed at the Dodge, he raised that now in a show of peace. He also raised the blow horn so that Joel could clearly see both his hands as he gently pushed through the ranks of soldiers who had come to a halt about 20 feet in front of the truck.

"Listen, mister," Joel growled down to the officer. "We're just passin' through. We ain't takin' anythin' from these parts. Just wanna be on our way."

The officer fixed Joel with a hard stare. "You're pointin' a gun at a Major with the Federal Emergency Disaster Response Agency, son. We aren't some scavengers. You want to rethink pointing a gun at government forces?"

"Ain't no government, mister," Joel returned.

"There is here. You're looking at it. And right now _you're_ outgunned and under-armored."

"You think I lived four years without learnin' how to aim round a flak jacket?"

The officer's eyes narrowed and he pursed his lips angrily. He took a step closer to the truck. "You think every soldier here has lived four years without learning to aim through a windshield?"

Tommy's stomach flipped and he heard Joel's breath stutter for a moment. Annie. She was a hell of a lot more vulnerable in the cab than they were crouched in the back of the truck.

Joel offered no immediate response, but after a second, he shifted, his rifle rattling slightly. Another second and he slowly started to raise his gun, releasing his steadying grip on the barrel and holding it out from his body. He nodded at Tommy to do the same.

"Good," the officer nodded curtly, once both brothers stood with their hands raised. "Now, come on down from there. You, young lady, out of the truck." He was pointing at Annie.

Soldiers with their assault rifles still trained on Joel and Tommy began circling the truck as the brothers moved towards the tailgate. Tommy was leaning on Joel for support, only gingerly touching his injured ankle to the truck bed. As the neared the tailgate, two soldiers came forward with guns at the ready but hands extended, clearly expecting Joel and Tommy to hand them their rifles. Both brothers did so without comment.

Another soldier grabbed the handle on the tailgate and let it down with a loud clunk. Scowling but compliant, Joel crouched and deftly jumped down from the truck. He immediately turned to help Tommy climb down, but the soldier who had released the tailgate suddenly kicked behind Joel's knee, crumpling Joel's leg beneath him and driving him to the asphalt. Joel cried out in alarm, but without hesitating, the soldier next slammed the butt of his assault rifle into the back of Joel's head.

"On the ground, roach!" the soldier growled as Joel fell forward onto the road and was held there by both the soldier's boot and the barrel of the soldier's gun, which he jabbed into the small of Joel's back.

"What the f—" Tommy started to shout as he looked down at the soldier abusing his brother. But even as he opened his mouth, another soldier standing beside the tailgate reached up and roughly yanked the edge of Tommy's jeans, pulling him off the back of the truck. Unbalanced, Tommy crashed towards the ground, briefly landing on his feet but immediately collapsing to his knees. Pain exploded in his kneecaps and shot up from his injured ankle. Only at the last second did Tommy remember not to catch himself with his hands, but rather to roll and avoid breaking or spraining both wrists. He landed on his shoulder, but rough hands immediately rolled him onto his stomach.

As Tommy held both hands away from himself and ground his chin into the pavement, he suddenly felt hands wrestling with the makeshift bandages wrapped around his ankle.

"What the hell is that?"

"Take the fuckin' thing off, man!"

"Stop panicking, you fuckin' moron. Keep your goddamn gun on the roach!"

The soldiers above Tommy and Joel were yelling at one another, but one or several of them continued to pull roughly at the bandages swathing Tommy's ankle. Fire erupted up and down his leg.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," Tommy growled, angrily twisting his head to look around at them. "It's not—"

A boot slammed against his cheek, ramming his face back against the asphalt. Stars and blackness burst before his eyes as he clenched his teeth. The arguing continued behind him even as he felt the bandages come loose and a hand roughly yank the bottom of his jeans up.

"Is it a bite? Well?"

"Looks pretty fuckin' chewed on to me!"

"Goddamn roaches draggin' every fuckin' disease with them!"

"He's not bit!" That was Joel's voice, but Tommy was not facing his brother, nor could probably have seen him through the stars now clouding his vision anyhow. "It wasn't an infected! It was birdshot! Hey, are you hearin'—" A dull thunk and a grunt suggested that Joel too had just been kicked.

"_Enough!_"

Tommy recognized the voice that cut through the babble of arguing soldiers as that of the officer who had been speaking to them just moments before.

"We have procedures for this, gentlemen," the officer's voice growled, as if exasperated. "If it looks like he's been bitten, then we have a procedure for potentially infected persons. _Follow it._"

Tommy heard movement behind him as his breathing quickened and his pulse began to race. Jesus Christ. They were going to shoot him. These bastards were going to shoot him, because better safe than sorry, right? Never mind the fact that he _wasn't bitten_, these fuckers were going to execute him without a second thought.

"I'm not fuckin' _bit_," Tommy hissed, suddenly more angry than afraid as he spat words at the pavement. "I'm not—"

He felt the barrel of a gun press against the soft skin behind his ear.

The last thing he heard was Joel crying out, "Wait!"

And then it was silent.

...

Only…it wasn't _quite_ silent. He could still hear the rattle of guns and packs as soldiers above him shifted. He could still hear the scrape of boots across the asphalt. He could still feel the fire burning up and down his leg.

A loud beep right beside his ear suddenly made him jump.

The gun barrel was abruptly withdrawn.

"Clear," one of the voices above him said. A relieved whisper rippled through the gathered soldiers.

Confused, Tommy risked twisting his head around again to look up at the soldiers. One of them was holding a small gray machine with some sort of round probe attached to the end. Wait, had _that_ been what they had pressed against the back of his ear?

"What the hell is that?" Tommy asked sharply.

The soldier holding the machine scowled as if disgusted. "Fuckin' roadies," he growled, staring down at Tommy. "Been so goddamn long on the outside they've gone feral. Don't even know what direction the fuckin' world's goin' in. It's a scanner, roach. So we ain't gotta wait for you to turn before we fuckin' put you down."

"Get them up," the officer's voice suddenly cracked like a whip. "And bring the woman."

Tommy felt someone grab the back of his collar and haul him to his knee. Someone else seized his hands and started tying them together. Two soldiers standing above Joel did the same. Beside him, Tommy saw several of the soldiers surrounding them part as Annie was pushed through the crowd. Her hands were likewise tied at her back and the soldier behind her shoved her to her knees beside Tommy.

The officer came to stand before all three of them.

"Now," the officer started, voice crisp and commanding. "I don't like having guns pointed at me. So I don't like _you_. But you look like capable sorts and I'm under orders to bring people like you back with me. Give me an excuse to shoot you and I will, understand? Give me an excuse to let my men take advantage of your lady friend here and I will, understand?"

None of them responded. All of them glared.

"Good," the officer nodded. "I am Major Lowry. I don't care what your names are. Here, you are roadies or roaches. If you hear either, you are expected to respond. If you do not, there will be consequences. Are there any questions?"

All three continued to glare up at their new captor. Only Joel growled out a single question from between clenched teeth.

"Where are you takin' us?"

Major Lowry narrowed his eyes at Joel.

"Baltimore. The cushy zone life awaits you. Happy Independence Day."

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks for reading and reviewing! Apologies for the longer than usual update time. I'm back into classes for law school and the first few weeks are always relatively busy getting back into the routine. Took me a good week just to get started on this chapter.<br>**

**To all my reviewers - thank you! I can't tell you how much I appreciate the support. To Oyyo in particular - I had to look up who Leo Valdez or the Heroes of Olympus even were, so alas, Jav was not based on him! :P He was actually based on some very real guys I used to work with in - surprise surprise - road construction. Funny as hell and good at what they do, but without a care in the world for what others might think of them. ;)**

**So, who thinks that zone life at the Baltimore Quarantine Zone will be cushy? :) Guess you'll have to find out next time! As usual, Follow to receive an email when I next update and thank you for reading!**


	12. Chapter 12 - Baltimore

Chapter 12

_July 6, 2017, Late Afternoon_

Tommy couldn't remember the last time he had not had a gun at his ready disposal. Being without one made his skin crawl as he sat rocking back and forth on the floor of the military transport rig, even as he looked up at the half dozen soldiers seated with assault rifles across their laps. It wasn't the same as being able to defend himself, not that he trusted these men to risk their lives for him anyhow.

Roach, he had gathered, was the derogatory term the soldiers used for so-called "roadies", people who lived outside the confines of a quarantine zone. After a day and a half of being kicked and bullied about by their captors, it was not difficult to conclude what opinion these "zoners" had of those who lived on the road.

The truck's brakes squealed as the vehicle came to a slow stop. One of the soldiers seated near the back stood and poked his head out through the flap in the truck's canvas top. Across from Tommy, Joel sat with his knees pulled up to his chest, hands tied in front of him. He glanced up as they came to a halt, eyes narrowing around an angry frown. He had said almost nothing since their capture, only muttering to Annie and Tommy to cooperate until they could better get their bearings. With thirty armed guards, it was an easy order to comply with.

"All right, out," one of the soldiers grumbled, using the toe of his boot to prod Annie where she sat beside Tommy.

She glared up at the soldier, but leaned forward to stand. Smirking, the soldier bent and hooked a hand under her arm, roughly hauling her to her feet. As he did so, however, he let the back of his hand brush against the outside of her breast. Annie tipped her head to the side as she fixed the soldier with an unimpressed stare.

"Subtle, junior," she said, as if bored. "Go on, give 'em a good squeeze. I promise I'll only rip _one_ of your fuckin' balls off if you stick to only touching."

Joel, who had stood as Annie was pulled to her feet, looked vaguely smug as the soldier suddenly reddened with angry embarrassment. But as the soldier turned to see Joel smirking at him, he turned beet red and suddenly lashed out with his assault rifle, catching Joel full in the face and snapping his head back. Blood immediately began rushing from Joel's nose into his beard.

"Hey!" Tommy yelled, grunting as he struggled to come to his feet with his hands tied and his balance thrown by his bad ankle.

In an instant, Joel, Annie, and Tommy were barreling around the dim back of the cargo truck, attempting to kick, head-butt, or bite their captors. Other soldiers were elbowing their way towards the three prisoners now. Fists flew and the stocks of rifles cracked against more than one skull.

The struggle was brief and vain. In the end, all three had a few more bruises and Joel's lips were red with the blood soaking into his beard. But to Tommy's satisfaction, the asshole who had groped Annie was also noticeably limping from her attempt to carry out her promise.

"What the fuck is going on?" Major Lowry's voice snapped as he ripped back the truck's canvas flap and glared into the dim interior, where the half dozen soldiers had only just gotten their prisoners back under control.

"Nothin', Major," several of the soldiers mumbled as they started pushing Joel, Tommy, and Annie towards the truck's tailgate.

"Get the hell down," Lowry growled at the three of them, dropping the tailgate.

As they crawled out of the back of the truck, Tommy leaning on Joel's shoulder as he hopped down, they were greeted by a sight at once heartening and ominous. Forty-foot walls rose on every side of them, constricting the sky above to a square patch of blue. And unlike Huntersville, where the walls had been a cobbled patchwork of wood and scrap metal even after a year of building them up, these walls were cement and iron and barbed wire. Walkways rimmed their tops, where men and women in blue FEDRA uniforms patrolled with assault rifles clutched to their chests.

Their truck had pulled into what looked like a perimeter compound, with tall rolling gates in front and behind them. It reminded Tommy of the double gates they had been building in Huntersville the day the quarantine zone had been overrun.

"Get over there," Major Lowry barked, holding a pistol in one hand and shoving them towards a cement wall with the other.

Tommy briefly stumbled face first into the wall, but someone grabbed his shoulders and spun him around. Without so much as a hello, a woman in FEDRA uniform snatched up his bound hands and started untying the rope around them. When the ties were free, she spun him around to face the wall again.

"Hands on the wall," she said tersely. He complied and heard her move away behind him.

He glanced sideways to see Joel likewise posed against the wall, with Annie on the other side of him. The dirt beneath Joel was pooling a steady red drip from the bottom of his chin.

"Are you—" Tommy started to say.

"I'm fine," Joel cut him off, whispering under his breath as he stared straight at the wall.

Swallowing a retort, Tommy rested his brow against the cool cement wall. He could see only the dirt and gravel beneath him and hear only the growl of the rumbling truck behind. A good minute passed before they heard voices near the front of the truck, some familiar, others new.

"Ruben said you radioed about three new hands?" A gruff, scratchy voice.

"Yes, sir. They're just there." That was Lowry.

"They're clean?"

"Yes, sir. The one with the shaggy hair took birdshot to the leg a few days ago fighting off a Clicker, but he isn't bitten."

"They've fought Clickers?"

"So they've said, sir."

The voices quieted. Tommy continued staring at the dusty ground, but he could hear boots shifting around the gravel behind him. Suddenly someone grabbed his shoulder and roughly spun him around again. It was the same FEDRA woman. She shoved him against the wall, then moved down the line and did the same to Joel and Annie. All three stood braced against the wall like death-row inmates awaiting death by firing squad.

Major Lowry stood before them, at the side of a shorter man in army fatigues bearing the silver acorn insignia of a Lieutenant Colonel. The shorter officer was bald and red-faced, with heavy bags beneath both eyes. Deep lines cut across his cheeks, concealed only poorly by a dirty gray goatee. The name _BRESLEN _was printed in block letters above the colonel's left breast pocket.

"What happened to his face?" the colonel said, squinting at Joel.

"Tripped while getting out of the truck," Lowry replied without missing a beat.

"Mmhmm. Sooner you start cooperating, roach, sooner you'll learn to not be so clumsy." The colonel seemed to speak in a constant guttural growl, like a man who had smoked his entire life. He swept an appraising stare over Joel, Tommy, and Annie, frowning. A second later, he grunted and turned his back on them, speaking to Lowry.

"I'll take them. Process them and put them in Block D. They start tomorrow morning at seven."

* * *

><p><em>Evening<em>

"There's too many people here," Joel muttered as he stared out the window at the narrow slum street below them. "This is Huntersville, only a hundred times worse."

Actually, a hundred times was an understatement. The biggest zone on the eastern seaboard, one of the processing officers had said. The Baltimore QZ was vast, some eight miles square and home to more than 100,000 people. It had been set up well outside the city proper, in an old area filled with street after street of staid brick row houses, each with jutting front stoops and cement backyards.

Even had Tommy not grown accustomed to the desolation of the open road, this place was unnerving. Outside the zone, streets were abandoned corridors and homes and stores were shells of lives now extinct. But here, the air was heavy with people. They sat on every doorstep, leaned out of every window, lingered in every alley. As they had been driven through the zone on the back of a military Jeep, Tommy had lost count of the number of people they had passed after only a few blocks.

Their new home was now the third story bedroom in a row house that was identical to every other row house on the street. Joining Joel at the window, Tommy could not say if the street below had been run-down before the outbreak or if the many boarded up windows and piles of garbage were the products of an overcrowded refugee population. Both, probably.

"Ain't shy about starin', are they?" Tommy said as he looked down.

Joel grunted. "Uh uh."

People on the street stared blatantly up at their "apartment" window, refusing to look away even when they noticed the two brothers watching them. Children pointed as they ran in and out of front doors, which seemed to be left constantly open, and others who leaned out of windows across the street did little to conceal their efforts to get a look at the new arrivals.

"We can't stay here," Annie's voice suddenly growled behind them. They turned to find her sitting cross-legged on the edge of one of the two bare mattresses that had been squashed into the corners of the room. She was reading through a dusty pamphlet stamped with the FEDRA logo.

"Yeah," Joel snorted, as if she had stated the obvious. "Figured that out already actually. What new reason can we add to the list now?"

Annie held up the pamphlet as Tommy and Joel left the window.

"Curfew at 6pm," she read. "Residential and body searches – including strip searches – permissible at any time with good reason. Ration cards docked for disturbing the peace, for undermining FEDRA authority, for arriving late to your work assignment, for failing to report suspicious activity, and for just about anything else under the sun. Harsher punishments include solitary confinement, full family confinement, corporal punishment, and, oh yes, death. At the sole discretion of the BQZ Chief Commander or his designee. All FEDRA personnel have the authority to quell, by lethal means if necessary, all perceived threats to BQZ security."

She looked up with a disbelieving expression and flicked the pamphlet towards the ground.

"No being kicked out as punishment?" Tommy said hopefully, though not without a heavy note of irony. "Maybe if we make ourselves more trouble than we're worth…"

"More people on the outside is more people to get infected," Joel interjected grimly. "I doubt they let many folks go."

Annie snorted and flopped back against the wall, throwing her hands up. "Well, this is going to be _fun_," she sighed.

Joel bent to pick up the pamphlet from the floor. "We just keep our heads down for now," he said, turning the paper over and thumbing through it. "We aren't gonna just jump forty-foot walls. We keep to ourselves, do what they tell us to, and figure out where they ain't watchin'."

All three drifted into frustrated silence. Tommy glanced around their new quarters. It was bare save for the two mattresses and a battered coffee table on which someone had left a kerosene lamp and two old fleece blankets. They had frequently slept in better places than this on the outside – old homes, RVs, office couches. Sneering at the set-up, Tommy instead pulled a passport-like document from his back pocket and flipped it open.

Tommy's BPI Papers – Baltimore Personal Identification Papers – listed him as Thomas Smith, ID # 498071, Clearance Level 10. Whatever that meant. Yet the information listed there was meaningless to him, quite apart from being inaccurate. What struck Tommy most was that the man in his photo hardly looked like him. It wasn't the shaggy hair or dirty beard. He had gotten used to those. It was the haunted shadow that lingered in the photographed man's eyes, the squinting expression that reminded him more of the grainy mug shots of Prohibition-era gangsters than of anyone he knew. Let alone himself.

Tommy looked up as Joel suddenly snorted and tossed the FEDRA pamphlet back to the floor, apparently having read something especially distasteful. Joel returned to the window and crossed his arms, shooting an annoyed expression towards the people below.

"We shouldn't even be here," he muttered.

Annie glanced up. "What do you mean?"

Joel shrugged irritably. Tommy's eyes narrowed, suddenly suspicious of what his brother was implying but refusing to say.

"No, what do you mean, Joel?" he asked, a little too sharply.

Joel's expression darkened. "Nothin'," he grumbled. "I just mean we'd never of gotten here if there were more than three of us."

Tommy snorted, pulling a face. "You are not sayin' what I think you're sayin'."

"I'm sayin' it," Joel replied in an over-patient tone. "Lowry would never of risked attackin' a bigger group. But three loners on their own is a whole other story."

"So you'd rather be with Troy than in here? Fuck, Joel. Between the two, I'll take bein' crammed into this place any day."

"_This_ place," Joel growled, "is a whole helluva lot more likely to get us killed than bein' out there."

Tommy scowled. "I didn't leave cause I thought Troy would get us killed. I left 'cause I wasn't gonna do what we were doin' anymore."

"At least that was takin' care of ourselves," Joel retorted, growing angry. "We got _nothin'_ here, Tommy. We shoulda at least stuck with Troy and the rest of 'em 'til it was safer to leave, not just run off when you felt like throwin' a goddamn tantrum."

"Hey, c'mon," Annie suddenly interjected, coming to her feet. "Layin' blame isn't gonna help us here, boys."

Tommy ignored her. "There wasn't gonna _be_ a better time, Joel. Not for you. You just get stuck in some fuckin' rut you think is gonna keep you safe and you stop lookin' for any other option. That ain't good enough for me."

"So now we're stuck _here_," Joel snapped. "Doin' whatever the military wants us to and lettin' 'em kick us around as much as they like. That good enough for you now, Tommy? If you think for a second they care about any one of us, you got no damn idea."

Tommy clenched his jaw, biting back a retort. Of course Joel wouldn't trust the military, and much as Tommy wanted to argue the point, he would not push his brother on that matter. Instead, Tommy merely glowered at Joel and changed direction.

"Fine, Joel. It's my fault. Happy now? It's my fault for havin' a goddamn conscious and draggin' you away from Troy and the rest of 'em, because fuck it, good guys can't make it anymore and we shoulda stayed." Tommy threw up his hands. "What the fuck did you come for if you thought we were better off with them?"

"Are you kiddin'?" Joel snorted angrily. "You were leavin'. I wasn't lettin' you go alone."

Tommy felt his cheeks grow hot with anger. "Then it was your own choice, so get off my _fuckin'_ back about it. Either stop blamin' me for everythin' that's gone wrong since we left, or next time, don't come with me unless you fuckin' mean it."

He didn't mention that Joel's answer had made him feel sick. It was the question that Tommy had avoided asking since they had abandoned the hunters – whether Joel had left merely out of a sense of obligation towards Tommy or because he had actually objected to hunting people to survive. Tommy wished now he hadn't let the question slip out. Joel had not given the answer that Tommy had hoped for.

"For Christ's sake," Annie interrupted again, glaring at both brothers. "Stop it, both of you. You finally start talkin' to each other and all you wanna do is fuckin' bicker." She put herself between them, hands held out to each of them to force them apart. "Tommy, try actin' like Joel actually gives a damn about you. And Joel, try givin' Tommy a break and blamin' the assholes who actually put us in here instead. Is that _really_ so goddamn hard?"

At just that moment, someone knocked, rattling their room door.

Tommy saw Joel's hand flinch towards his back waistband, an instinct born of years of carrying a pistol tucked there. But there was nothing there now and Joel's eyes instead darted to the kerosene lamp. Without a word, Annie swept it off the coffee table and stepped behind the door. Their argument only seconds ago was instantly forgotten.

Tommy had no weapon, but he positioned himself beside the door so that he would be able to see through it as soon as Joel opened it. Swallowing, Joel put a hand on the doorknob and slowly turned it, one boot set directly behind the door to brace against anyone seeking to shove their way into the bare room.

Joel pulled the door open just a sliver, glaring out into the hallway beyond.

A boy stood looking up at him.

The kid couldn't have been more than six or seven. He was black and wearing a ratty, overlarge polo shirt that came almost to his knees. He was also alone, and staring wide-eyed up at the six foot man looming over him.

"What?" Joel said sharply.

The kid flinched at Joel's brusque question. He opened his mouth, revealing a row of stubby teeth, but then seemed to freeze.

"_What?_" Joel demanded again, opening the door a fraction more.

The kid took a deep breath, then suddenly scrunched up his face. "Areyoureallyroadies?"

Joel's brow wrinkled and he frowned. "What?" he repeated, more confused now.

"Are you really roadies?" the kid said again, swallowing and forcing the words out more slowly.

"Uh…"

"Imeanyou'vebeenontheoutsideright?" the kid asked, again speaking at lightning speed as if having taken Joel's grunt-like response as permission to bombard them with questions. "You been ousside the wall? Have you fought infected? Or, or, or Clickers? Have you seen Clickers?"

"Hey stop, kid," Joel suddenly grunted. "What the hell d'you want?"

The kid pressed his lips together and swallowed again, clearing his throat. "You been on the ousside, right? That's wha everybody's sayin' downstairs, that you been on the ousside. That right?"

Joel glanced back at Tommy, expression still suspicious. But he slowly said, "Yeah, that's right."

Face lighting up, the kid balled his fists together at his sides as if to keep himself from running away with his enthusiasm again. "And, and, and how long were you ousside for?"

"Uh, three years," Joel said.

"Oh my _god_," the kid replied, as if he had heard the phrase from an adult and was repeating it now like a grown-up. His eyes were wide as saucers. "And, and did you see Clickers? Jan said the soldiers are seein' 'em all over now and they're gross and they got, like, like, mushroom heads."

Joel scowled. "Yeah, we seen 'em. Listen, what d'you want, kid?"

"I just…I just…m'name's Perce. I mean, not like a girl purse. Like Percy, 'cause that's m'real name, only everybody just calls me Perce. Uh, what's your name?"

Joel's lips parted, eyes narrowing. "Joel," he said slowly.

"Okay," Percy said, grinning like he'd made a new friend. "Everybody's talkin' 'bout you, y'know. So I just figured I'd come up and talk _to_ you, y'know? 'Cause everybody's afraid of roadies, but I ain't afraid of _nothin'_, right?"

"Guess not."

"Okay, well, bye then." And with that, the kid turned and began trotting down the hall towards a flight of steps that led to the lower floors. Joel's expression turned quizzical and he shot a confused look sideways at Tommy. For his part, Tommy had to fight to hide the smile he felt tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Hey wait!"

Joel's head snapped back to the door, instantly suspicious at Percy's sudden exclamation from down the hall, but the kid was merely standing at the top of the stairs and fidgeting as if having forgotten to ask the most important question of all.

"Hey, um," he said, shifting from foot to foot. "So what level are you?"

"What?" Joel grunted.

"Security level. Clearance. What clearance level are you?"

"Uh…ten, I think."

The kid's face suddenly lit up like Christmas had come early. He stamped his feet and slapped the stairway railing as he gave a hoot of triumph and, without another word to Joel, started charging down the stairs, hollering at the top of his lungs.

"Yes! I knew it, I knew it! We got tens! We got gravediggers! Ain't nobody nowhere gonna mess with us now!"

Joel, Tommy, and Annie were left staring after the kid, expressions both confused and suspicious.

* * *

><p><em>Morning<em>

White streaked the long gray hair of the woman who sat down across from them the next morning. She wore a white t-shirt with a sleeveless denim jacket over it and had her hair pulled back loosely beneath a black bandana. Webs of tiny red blood vessels had broken out across her lined and weathered face, giving her an almost cheery look despite the jaded expression she wore.

"So you must be our new roadies," she said casually, as if she were making conversation with someone she had known her entire life. "Welcome to paradise then."

Tommy looked sideways at Joel and across the table to Annie, his spoonful of oatmeal paused just above his bowl. He noticed that others seated at the plastic tables within the canvas dining tent had quieted as this stranger had joined them.

Yet he said nothing, as did neither Joel nor Annie, both of whom had been in the middle of chewing when their guest had plopped herself down beside them without an invitation.

The woman looked up from her own bowl of oatmeal and glanced around at all three, lifting her brows. "You must be the rebel type, then," she continued, just as casually as before.

"Excuse me?" Tommy finally said, setting his spoon back into his bowl.

"The rebel type," the woman repeated, as if he had not heard. She held up two fingers. "There's two types of roadies come in here. The grateful type, who really _do_ think this is paradise, and the rebel type, who are spittin' to get out first chance they get. You all been stickin' to yourselves, you ain't got that glassy look like you're in heaven, and you ain't be singin' the praises of this place. So I figure you're the rebel type."

"This some kinda psychology lesson?" Annie snorted.

"Honey," the woman said sarcastically, "you could write a library full of psychology books on this place."

Tommy snorted too, half smiling because he wasn't sure what else to do. But Joel was eyeing the woman suspiciously, his oatmeal forgotten.

"What d'you want?" he asked abruptly, voice quiet but wary.

The woman swallowed a mouthful of oatmeal and studied Joel as she slowly chewed. Finally, she pointed her spoon at him and nodded. "You must be Joel. Percy told me about you."

Joel's eyes narrowed. "Did he?"

"Mmhmm. Said you're a real charmer."

"That's nice."

She took another spoonful of oatmeal, calmly returning Joel's flinty stare. She looked unflappable, someone shaken neither by the glare of a man twice her size nor by four years in hell. When she finally shook her head, Tommy was struck by the same feeling of shame a disappointed teacher can foster in her students.

"Listen," she said patiently. "I'm goin' to give you some advice. The people you're glarin' at around here? The ones starin' at you with that mix of awe and fear? They're not your enemies. In fact, they're just about the only friends you'll probably find you have. The people you wanna be glarin' at? They're the ones holdin' the guns to your head."

She scooted back her chair, lifting her bowl with her as she stood. "People here got a lot of respect for tens. You stop thinkin' about leavin' for just a second, you might find this place ain't so bad."

Joel was motionless as she turned to leave, but Tommy opened his mouth suddenly, eyes darting between Joel and the woman.

"Wait," Tommy said sharply as she looked back at them. "What the hell are tens?"

She cocked her head to the side. "Your BPI Papers. Security Clearance, Level 10."

"Yeah, but…what's that mean? Why's it such a big deal?"

The woman smiled, though the expression was almost cynical. "Means you can go outside the gate. Don't get too excited though. They'll shoot you if you run."

Tommy's brow furrowed and he frowned, still not sure the woman had answered his question. "And gravediggers? Percy was yellin' somethin' about gravediggers."

"Gravediggers are tens," the woman said. "Tens are gravediggers. As for what you do, the title's pretty self-explanatory." She paused, lips pressing together. "I'll leave Colonel Breslen to explain the details to you. You better get goin' though. It's forty minutes walkin' from here to the processing building you're supposed to meet at your first day. And if I can offer you one more piece of advice? Don't piss Jack Breslen off, at least not any more than he already is. That means don't be late, and don't talk back."

Then she was gone.

* * *

><p>"How's the nose?"<p>

Colonel Breslen glanced over his shoulder, lifting a gray brow and squinting at Joel. His tone was neither cruel nor concerned. The question was to test Joel's reaction.

"Fine," Joel muttered, face unreadable.

"Mmhmm," Breslen grunted, looking forward again. He stood only as tall as Joel's chin, but he was stocky and solid like a pit bull, and carried himself like the sort of man for whom a lack of height had never been a problem. He seemed unafraid to turn his back on Tommy, Joel, and Annie as he walked ahead of them, though that may have had something to do with the four soldiers carrying assault rifles behind them. Or the half dozen other soldiers who glared down at them from the wall above.

They were outside the zone. Baltimore's forty-foot wall loomed above them like some bastion of English medieval history, not a modern structure in the midst of an urban landscape. In other areas of the zone, they had been told, the wall was only welded slabs of metal and wood, but here, it was all cement and barbed wire and heavy sliding gates. Soldiers patrolled walkways along the top and kept watch from the occasional elevated guard tower. It was becoming clear now why Baltimore had lasted as long as it had.

Colonel Breslen stopped abruptly in front of two rusting cars with broken windows. He turned around, ignoring his three prisoners and nodding instead at one of the soldiers following them. The soldier tossed Breslen a gas mask.

"Get over there," he grumbled, pointing Joel, Tommy, and Annie towards a spot several feet away from the cars. As they moved to comply, they came within view of the far side of the vehicles. Two corpses sat collapsed on one another. Two Runners, their expressions tortured, eyes wide and red.

Breslen pulled the gas mask over his bald head and donned a pair of thick green rubber gloves that he tugged from the inside of his camouflaged jacket. Perplexed, Tommy watched as the colonel moved towards the dead Runners until he was standing behind them, facing Tommy and the others with the corpses at his feet.

"This is your job," Breslen grunted, pointing at the Runners as the guttural rumble of his voice was exaggerated by the mechanical gasp and release of the gas mask.

Tommy's brows drew together in question.

The colonel straightened and pointed into the distance. "Three miles south of here are the remnants of a city that once housed more than 600,000 people. Roughly 100,000 made it here." He waved around them, spreading both arms. "But the Baltimore metro area as a whole once had just under 3 million people. That's roughly 2.9 million people still out there by my calculation, give or take a few hundred thousand. How many you willin' to bet are still people anymore?"

He paused and pointed at the infected at his feet. "Every day," he continued, "a couple hundred more make their way out _here_. If we're very unlucky, we get packs. We've seen as many as a thousand in a single pack."

Tommy glanced sidelong at Joel, but his brother's face was impassive.

"There's roughly 32 miles of wall around this zone," Breslen growled. "These bastards stack up outside it like driftwood. And if you lot really have been on the road as long as you say you have, you know what happens to an infected's body once it dies. Without clearin' these sons a bitches out from the wall every day, we'd have hundreds of spore factories breedin' right under our noses."

He jabbed a gloved finger towards them. "So it's your job to clear them out."

All three captives were silent, but Tommy could tell from the rigid manner in which both Joel and Annie shifted beside him that their thoughts were likely similar to his own: dealing with dead infected every day had be tantamount to suicide. When they had been on the road, they had never touched the corpses. That had been one of Judge's lessons. If the infection could be spread through saliva, it could likely be spread through blood too, and there was no point risking touching the dead if you could simply move on instead. Infected were left to rot where they had fallen.

Far from avoiding the corpses, however, Colonel Breslen suddenly knelt beside one of them. He unsheathed a knife from his belt, then placed a hand on the shoulder of one of the dead, rolling the Runner onto its back. Tommy noticed a bloody red hole beneath the Runner's throat where soldiers on the wall had likely shot it upon its approach.

Tommy's perplexion, however, gave way to mild disgust as Breslen suddenly drove the blade of his knife into the bullet hole beneath the Runner's throat. The horror that Tommy had once felt at the sight of the dead – infected or otherwise – had largely abated after years of encountering them on a near daily basis, but he could not resist curling his lip as he watched Breslen work. Only the mechanical gasp of the colonel's gas mask broke the silence as Breslen's gloved fingers felt inside the bloody wound, using his knife to widen the opening.

He suddenly grunted and withdrew his hand. He stood again and stepped over the corpses to approach them, opening his palm to show them what he grasped. The rubber glove was now slick with congealed blood, but at the center of Breslen's open palm was a gnarled lump of lead.

"This is gold," he said tersely. He dropped the piece of lead into a bucket that one of the soldiers carried, then quickly stripped off his gloves and mask. Red indentations left by the mask pressed into the lined skin above Breslen's brow.

"Every infected killed is a bullet spent, maybe two, maybe three. We don't waste here. These suckers can be melted down and made into new rounds, so you search every body with a gunshot wound. Got it? You'll be issued a mask, gloves, and knife every day you're out here. And you'll be scanned every time you re-enter the zone. Any questions?"

His tone did not in fact encourage questions. Breslen's demonstration of their new work assignment had not been peppered with the casual threats that they had received from Major Lowry on their journey to Baltimore, but something in the colonel's curt tone and blunt explanations made Tommy suspect that Breslen was more dangerous than any of the petty abuse that Lowry had meted out.

"If the scan comes up positive for infection?" Annie asked.

"You'll be shot," Breslen replied brusquely.

"What?" Tommy snorted, partly indignant but more disbelieving. "Are you kiddin'? Just for doin' this suicide job you're forcin' us to do? You gonna pull the lead out of us too?"

"Yes and yes." Breslen's face was deadly serious, his dirty gray brows drawn together in an impatient frown.

"You son of a—" Annie started to mutter, but Joel grabbed her wrist and silenced her with a look.

"Listen," Breslen snapped, glaring up at the three of them. "You were brought here to do a job. You do it right, you don't die. Pretty damn simple."

"Like hell it is," Tommy said, feeling the back of his neck grow hot. "World mighta gone to hell, but that don't give you the right to just round people up and do whatever you like with 'em. We ain't fuckin' slaves." He started to take a step towards the colonel.

Breslen moved so suddenly that Tommy hardly saw the rock hard fist that the colonel threw into Tommy's gut. It did not seem to matter that Breslen was both shorter and older; he moved with the speed of a lifelong brawler.

Tommy collapsed to his knees, the wind forced from his lungs. He glimpsed several of the soldiers behind them restrain Joel and Annie. In an instant, Breslen had drawn a heavy pistol from his belt and cocked it against Tommy's forehead.

"You _are_ here," Breslen rumbled coolly. "You're whatever I need you to be."

Angry disbelief boiled within Tommy, drumming up his temper despite the cold metal pressed to his brow. "Why us then?" he said through clenched teeth as he looked up at the colonel. "You got a hundred thousand people in here, you said yourself. Why bring in people like us? Why not just leave us the fuck alone?"

"Tommy…" Joel suddenly muttered, a warning in his voice. But Tommy's temper already roused. Goddamnit, Joel, but Tommy wasn't going to keep his head down this time. This was too insane.

"Zoners?" Breslen snorted, a ghost of a cynical smile twisting the hard lines of his face. "They wouldn't work out here if we gave them double rations. Fuckin' sheep. They been cooped up behind these walls so long that the infected are like boogie-monsters out of some nightmare. They'll talk about them, gossip, feed on stories about infected like teenagers tellin' horror stories round a campfire, but the moment you open the gates and they're pissin' themselves."

He rammed the barrel of the gun against Tommy's brow, as if pointing. "But you roadies? As much of a pain in my ass as you are, infected don't bother you. Not when you've had to deal with the real threat out there – people driven crazy or desperate or greedy or whatever the hell else you roaches become after too long on the outside."

Tommy sneered, his lip curling. He could feel the sensible part of him pounding furiously at the inside of his skull, screaming at him to stop. But the hot anger that raced up and down his neck thumped against his eardrums, roughly shoving his good sense to the back of the line.

"And you're sure we ain't just those sorts of people?" he muttered spitefully.

Breslen stared down at Tommy for a second, his lips parted and chin jutting out as if sizing Tommy up. Then, without a word, he grabbed Tommy's wrist and thrust the pistol he held into Tommy's hand. The colonel bent over, scowling at Tommy as he positioned the barrel of the gun against his own forehead.

"Your brother here has a whole helluva lot more sense than you, son," Breslen grunted as he stared down the barrel of the gun that Tommy now held. "But you think you're the tough guy. Think you're gonna put this mean ol' cur in his place. Go on then. Let's see how fast you can pull that trigger before these young soldiers pack you full of lead. Let's see how far you can run before the men on the wall gun you down."

"Tommy," Joel said slowly, cautiously.

Tommy closed his fingers around the pistol's handle as he stared straight back at the colonel. The pouchy bags beneath Breslen's eyes made the old man's squint appear cynical and apathetic, as if he had done this a thousand times and knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Tommy, like all the hot-headed young men before him, would not pull the trigger.

"_Tommy_," Joel said again, more sharply this time.

This was a test.

Yet even as Tommy held both Breslen's glare and gun, his mind worked furiously as he processed something else. The pistol was a .45, a heavy handgun with a double magazine contained within the handle. Tommy had carried something similar for a year or so after Huntersville, until the tip of the barrel had cracked during a struggle with two Runners. He knew what this gun should feel like.

He knew the magazine was empty.

The pistol had the characteristic imbalance. Heavy along the top where the sliding mechanism and barrel were located. Light at the handle, too easy to rotate in his hand, where a full magazine would have comfortably anchored the weight of the gun. Firearms had been a daily part of Tommy's life for three years. He knew what a magazine felt like when it was full, empty, or somewhere in between. And this one was definitely empty.

Clenching his teeth angrily, Tommy's scowl deepened. He stared at Breslen a second longer, then pulled the trigger.

The gun clicked uselessly, firing pin striking only empty space where a bullet should have been.

Breslen didn't flinch. But his eyes did abruptly narrow and the angry lines around his mouth twisted. He held Tommy's gaze for moment, then straightened and snatched the gun out of Tommy's hand.

Without warning, and still holding the pistol by the barrel, Breslen backhanded Tommy square across the jaw. The gun's grip smashed into the side of Tommy's head, instantly bursting stars before his vision and slamming him sideways to the ground. Fire erupted across Tommy's right cheek and jaw and he knew the blow had almost certainly drawn blood.

He felt movement behind him and was suddenly aware of Joel kneeling over him, holding up a hand to prevent the colonel from continuing any abuse.

"All right, all right," Joel was saying, speaking fast. "Hey, he's said his piece, all right? We'll cooperate. Whatever you want us doin'."

Breslen stared down impassively at Tommy as he popped out the empty magazine from the pistol and slotted in one that looked very much full. As he holstered the gun again, his expression was akin to someone who has just swatted a fly.

"Let me explain somethin' to you, boy," Breslen growled. He never seemed to yell, but his low livid rumble was like thunder. "This is _it_. This is all that's left. You roadies been out in the cold so long you don't even remember why you're fightin' anymore. Were you plannin' on wanderin' for the rest of your life, til you're so old and broken that nature finally takes its due?"

He spread his arms wide. "Open your eyes, boy. This is as good as it gets. And this is what takes to get there, runnin' this zone the way we do. You don't have to like it. You don't have to like _me_."

Breslen's voice dropped to nearly a whisper as he pointed down at Tommy. "But the next time you figure pullin' the trigger is the right choice, your brother's goin' to be diggin' lead out of _you_."

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks for reading and reviewing! Tune in next time to see how, once again, Joel is better at adapting than Tommy, as they make their first foray into the criminal underbelly of zone life. :)<strong>

**As for future updates, I've about figured out that my fall school schedule allows for me to finish a chapter roughly every two weeks. I'll certainly continue to aim to update more often, but that's just a heads up. And fear not, Meow, I fully intend to finish this! That's why I don't generally let myself go longer than two weeks without an update because I know the easiest way to fall out of writing is to give into excuses not to write every day, even if only for a little while. So long as folks keep reading (and maybe occasionally reviewing!), I'll keep writing. :)**


	13. Chapter 13 - Gravediggers

Chapter 13

_August 12, 2017, Early Evening_

"_Runners inbound! Two minutes!_"

The mega-phone screeched to life with a belch of static, blaring the speaker's voice out into the ruins that rimmed the outer perimeter of the south wall. A second later, the whine of a siren crackled over the loudspeakers like an air raid warning straight out of an old war movie.

"Goddamnit!"

Tommy swore out loud to himself as he walked backwards, hands hooked under the arms of a dead Runner. Sweat ran into his eyes and fogged the face of his gas mask as he grunted under the exertion. Baltimore's summer sun was mercilessly unforgiving, baking earth, brick, and human alike, saturating the very air that Tommy breathed with nearly 100 degree temperatures and 100 percent humidity. The shirt and denim jacket that Tommy wore were already soaked and his hair was plastered against his head.

"C'mon, almost there!" Joel entered Tommy's fogged vision at a jog, coming from behind Tommy, from the direction of the pile of bodies they had already dragged together over the course of the sweltering day. Joel's clothes were just as soaked as Tommy's and his black hair glistened above the gas mask he wore, but he immediately stooped and grabbed the ankles of the dead infected. Together, he and Tommy began jogging, their breath huffing ragged and weary through their masks.

The pile of bodies spread away from them like a small hill, and from a distance, might have appeared as just that. But up close, the twisted features of dozens of dead infected – and some non-infected too – were bloody, hollow, and brutal to behold. The pile was bigger than usual, the product of several days' work after a pack of Runners the day previous had interrupted the efforts of Baltimore's gravedigging crews.

"Here we go!" Joel grunted as he and Tommy neared the pile. Together, they swung the body they held and slung it halfway up the pile, where it rolled a few feet before finally coming to a stop face up. The open mouth and bloodshot eyes of something that had once been a woman in a ragged rain jacket stared up at them.

Neither Joel nor Tommy paused to behold their handiwork, however. Joel grabbed a bucket full of bloody bits of lead and both brothers started jogging towards the southern gate, some two hundred feet away. Other gravediggers were leaving the field too, peeling away from other piles of the dead and running towards the gate as the sirens above them blared.

As he ran, Tommy stripped off his rubber work gloves and grabbed the filter on his gas mask, pulling the mask up and over his head. Even with the cloying humidity, the air felt deliciously fresh after hours of working under the thick rubber mask. Tommy shook his head, almost grinning. Beside him, Joel too yanked off his gloves and mask, shooting a tired but relieved look at his brother.

The southern gate was open as soldiers on the ground outside were vigorously waving towards the retreating gravediggers, shouting at them to run faster. The sentry outposts beyond the walls were rarely wrong when it came to timing. If they had radioed Runners were two minutes out, then Runners were two minutes out.

A short figure in military fatigues stood beside the gate, a hand held against his brow to shield against the sun. As he caught sight of Tommy and Joel, however, Colonel Breslen suddenly waved and pointed sharply towards the mountain of bodies they had left behind.

"Get your asses back there, you sons a bitches!" Breslen bellowed.

They had discovered that he could in fact yell quite loudly when he wished to, and frequently did, across the wastes that rimmed the quarantine zone wall.

"That pile's got bodies that are three days old on it! You light that fucker or you're not settin' foot past this goddamn gate!"

Tommy and Joel ground to a halt, expressions exhausted and incredulous. But Breslen made no idle threats. Arguing was pointless. With an angry growl, Joel ran a hand through his sweaty hair and turned on his heel. Tommy followed a second later.

They pounded back towards the bodies they had left behind, each of them fumbling in their jackets to pull out the metal lighters they had been issued as part of their work assignment. Tommy made a face as he pulled his gas mask back over his head, the inside still slick with condensation.

"You start over there!" Joel growled, voice muffled as he likewise re-donned his mask. He pointed to the right side of the pile as he dove towards the left.

Tommy flipped open his lighter and flicked the flame to life with practiced ease. His fingertips were already gray and dirty from the countless other times he had done this. He stepped onto the pile, ignoring the fact that his boot was resting on a twisted arm as he leaned forward, lighter in hand.

Clothing was easiest to light, but hair was a decent second. He held the flame to shirt sleeves, pants legs, and any corpse with long hair. Each time, it took a few precious seconds for the flame to catch, seconds during which Tommy's heart hammered in his ears as he listened for sounds of the impending pack. He worked with desperate speed, ignoring the vacant faces that stared up at him.

Smoke was beginning to choke the air. It clung to Tommy's skin, leaving a waxy feeling that he was never quite able to wash away. He could see smoke rising from the other side of the pile as well and knew Joel was working just as quickly as he was.

But it was not quick enough.

The first tortured howls of the infected suddenly rose above the crackle of the fire taking hold in the stacked bodies before Tommy.

He blinked sweat out of his eyes as his breathing quickened, feverishly trying to ignore the fact that a pack of God-only-knew-how-many Runners were descending on them and he was armed with only a knife and a lighter.

The rank smell of burning flesh suddenly swept over Tommy, making its way through even the filter in his mask, as it always did. That was going to have to do. Breslen be damned. Tommy snapped his lighter shut as he felt a wall of heat from the rising flames start to burn even more intensely than the Baltimore sun above.

"C'mon, c'mon!"

The sound of Joel's voice instantly brought Tommy's attention back to his left, where he saw his brother sprinting towards him, lead bucket in one hand, gas mask in the other. And as he watched Joel run, Tommy saw the first ranks of howling Runners start to swarm through the gaps between several crumbling brick buildings in the distance. Joel was waving Tommy ahead of him, the pack barely two hundred feet behind.

Tommy ripped off his gas mask, spun, and started tearing towards the southern gate, which was mercifully still open. He could see Breslen still standing outside with two other soldiers, but the remaining gravediggers all appeared to be inside already. Gravel slid beneath Tommy's boots as he pounded across the wasteland of broken roads and crumbling buildings that FEDRA had bombed to rubble to create a buffer zone outside the wall.

The blare of the sirens above them abruptly stopped and Tommy saw Breslen and the two soldiers turn and disappear through the entryway. A second later, the heavy metal gate started to slide close. Tommy put on an extra burst of speed, but did not yet start to panic. This was standard procedure when attempting to get people out of the field with a pack hot on their heels: they would leave the gate open a bare few feet, ready to slam it shut as soon as their people were through.

Fifty feet. Forty. Thirty. Twenty. The gate was speeding towards Tommy, even as the cries of the infected behind him rose to a deafening level.

And then they were through. Tommy flew through the three foot opening so fast that he actually stumbled and skidded to his knees, catching himself with sweaty hands that plowed into the dusty gravel inside the gate. Joel followed him a second later, coming to a halt with only marginally more grace than his brother.

The gate screeched, then slammed shut, locks ramming into place. Atop the wall, the pop and crack of gunfire started to fill the air.

Tommy's chest was heaving and his hands and clothes were so soaked with sweat that the dust from the ground was coating him a dirty brown. Joel offered a hand to help him up. Tommy took it, yet as he started to come to his feet, the crowd of soldiers and other gravediggers lingering inside the gate parted.

Breslen came marching through the milling onlookers. He didn't stamp angrily like he was about to throw a tantrum, but his expression was hard and annoyed. He wore a cloth military cap to protect the top of his head from the sun, but beads of sweat glistened across his face and pooled around the bags beneath his eyes.

Tommy was only halfway to his feet when Breslen reached down and grabbed the collar of his jacket, hauling him up the rest of the way.

"I told you three days," the colonel growled, glaring at both Tommy and Joel. "_Three_ days. Then those bastards start sproutin'. You leave them any longer than _three days_ and you put this entire fuckin' zone at risk."

"They were at the bottom of the pile," Tommy said, holding up his hands like Breslen was overreacting. "All the infected on top were from yesterday's pack. Even if the older bodies _did_ start sproutin' tonight, they were smothered under all the others. There's no way spores woulda started gettin' out before we could light that thing tomorrow mornin'."

"_If_ we could light it by tomorrow morning," Breslen returned angrily, crossing his arms. "You don't know if that pack out there's got a hundred or a thousand in it. We could be layin' lead into them for the next two days and not be able to set foot outside these walls in the meantime." He put one hand on his hip and pointed sharply towards the gate with his other.

"First you light, then you run. You understand me? _No exceptions._ Next time I see either of you runnin' towards me without a _fuckin' fire_ behind you, I'm shuttin' this gate and orderin' the boys up top to shoot you both as a couple of lazy liabilities. You understand me?"

Both Tommy and Joel frowned angrily, but did not attempt to argue. They nodded together.

"Good," Breslen grunted. "Now get in the goddamn line."

The colonel turned and stalked away as Tommy and Joel joined the line of gravediggers assembling in front of a check point just inside the gate. Most gravediggers were recognizable by their soot-blackened faces and fingers and by the long-sleeved leather or denim jackets they wore to protect against the odd body they rolled over only to discover the infected was in fact still alive. Today, all wore the long expressions of exhaustion.

Tommy scowled as he brushed dirt from his jacket and shrugged out it, relishing the feel of bare arms at last.

"Why you gotta test him?" Joel muttered behind Tommy as he peeled out of an old Carhartt jacket.

"I wasn't testin' him," Tommy whispered irritably. "I was explainin' to him."

"Which you know he don't like. For Christ sake, Tommy, don't give him an excuse. He already hates us."

"He hates everybody."

Joel's jaw tightened. "Not everybody pulled the goddamn trigger."

Tommy gave a pinched sigh and ground his teeth, but did not reply or look back at his brother. No point rehashing an argument they had had a hundred times already.

As Tommy neared the front of the line, he could hear the electric beep of the scanner the soldiers were using as they held it up to each gravedigger's ear and awaited the results. The line was a bit more animated than usual today given the hasty retreat the crews had beat to the gate, but usually this process was somber and silent, each man and woman waiting with baited breath as the machine clicked and beeped. So far Tommy had seen only one person come up positive for infection. The man had been shot on the spot.

Breslen was deadly serious about how positive scans were treated. To prevent FEDRA personnel from hesitating to do the necessary, Breslen assigned only soldiers unfamiliar with, and thus unfriendly with, the gravedigging crews to scan them in at the end of each day.

Tommy's turn came. He stepped forward to the checkpoint and tilted his head forward slightly as the supervising soldier held the machine to the back of his ear. As always, Tommy felt himself hold his breath.

The machine took a longer time to beep if the scan was negative; it usually beeped after only half a second if positive. But it was easy to doubt how long or short the pause was when you were standing there with the probe against your ear, heart pounding.

The scanner beeped.

"Clear," the soldier mumbled dispassionately, waving Tommy forward.

He released his breath and took a few steps forward before turning to watch the soldier hold the probe up to Joel's ear. Again, the murderous few seconds of silence, then a beep.

"Clear," the soldier grunted again, waving Joel forward.

Another day safe.

Each breathing a little easier, Joel and Tommy deposited their bucket of spent bullet lead at a guard post before making their way out through the second gate into Baltimore zone proper. The area inside the gate was bustling with activity, mostly as soldiers hustled back and forth carrying supplies to the people on the wall working to repel the onslaught of infected outside. Despite the ring of gunfire, however, the attitude of most of those on the ground seemed almost routine. It was something that Tommy still found discomforting. People never seemed to doubt that their walls and guns would withstand any infected attack.

"Tommy!"

Tommy looked up to see Percy weaving through the crowd, beaming up at them as an overlarge and peeling Baltimore Ravens jersey billowed around his knees. The kid dodged a soldier carrying several metal boxes of bullets and came trotting up to the two brothers before wrapping his arms around Tommy's waist.

"Hey, kid," Tommy said fondly, patting Percy's shoulder.

"Not bit?" Percy said, looking up at Tommy with wide, serious eyes.

Tommy chuckled. "Not today."

Percy nodded with approval. He released Tommy and straightened as he caught sight of Joel. As he always did, Percy smoothed the front of his shirt and adopted a serious expression before holding out a hand, very formal, to Joel.

And as Joel always did, looking uncomfortable and a little annoyed, he stared at Percy's outstretched hand for a second before catching it and giving it a single shake.

"You're gross, by the way," Percy said abruptly with brutal, childish honesty. "Both of you. You should know. Jan's gonna make you take a bath."

Tommy snorted softly. "Doubt she's gonna have much say in the matter if the military still hasn't issued her the non-potable water ration she's due. She with you, Perce?"

Percy nodded and turned, pointing through the crowd. A woman in a plain white t-shirt and jeans, her gray hair pulled up under a black bandana, came weaving through the passing soldiers. As it had been since the first day she had joined them at their breakfast table, Jan's expression was jaded and unflappable, but she quirked a small smile as she approached them.

"Good to see you, boys," she said, voice light but tired. "Never good to hear the sirens goin'. I'm glad you're both still in one piece."

Joel and Tommy both nodded cordially at Jan. As Joel started to open his mouth, however, she held up a hand.

"Before you ask," she said, "I already checked. The west-side crews were brought in a half-hour ago. Annie's probably already back at Rexmere." Rexmere was the neighborhood in Block D where they all resided.

Joel visibly relaxed and nodded wordlessly. Jan waved both brothers and Percy to follow her as she turned, headed away from the gate.

"Come on then. They still haven't given me my water ration, but I can at least put some food in your stomachs."

* * *

><p>The streets of Rexmere were a burnt orange and patterned with long shadows by the time they had walked the forty minutes from the southern gate to the neighborhood in which Joel and Tommy lived. Red-brick row houses marched up and down on either side of the road, and every front door stoop was occupied by lounging residents, many only just returning from their daily work assignments.<p>

Jan was a well-known face in Rexmere. She waved to most every house they passed, checking on the status of people who had had their rations delayed, children who were sick, and troubles that had come up over the course of the day. After a month in their new surroundings, Tommy was at least familiar with several of the faces that watched them, but he still found people watching him warily whenever he attempted a friendly nod. Joel barely glanced from side to side, other than to instinctively tense whenever someone made a sharp movement around them.

Ahead of them, Percy pounded up the steps of a row house with a bright red door that stood perpetually open. The downstairs window was boarded up, broken glass glinting on the outside sill.

Jan waved Joel and Tommy to follow as she mounted the steps after Percy and led the way into the house's dark interior. The sound of voices and movement upstairs suggested that the other residents with whom Jan shared her house were already home. Every house on the street was occupied by multiple families or groups of people. Tommy, Joel, and Annie all lived in another row house across the street, but they shared their building with no fewer than twelve others.

A kerosene lamp was burning low on a side table just inside the door of Jan's house. She grabbed it and quietly made her way towards the back of the house, where a snug kitchen backed up against the building's cement backyard. As they followed her, Tommy was suddenly conscious of just how much the narrow entryway stank of perspiration, smoke, and something waxy and sickly sweet; that last smell was the one that Tommy could never wash off.

"Sorry for the stink, Jan," he muttered, running a hand through his still drying hair.

"Augh, go out_side_, boys." The reply came not from Jan, but from Annie, whom they found sitting at a center table as they emerged into the dimly-lit kitchen. She was running a ragged dish towel through wet hair, but wore a fresh shirt and jeans, as if she had just finished washing up.

"Yeah, 'cause you smell like peaches," Joel muttered sarcastically, smiling for the first time since they had left the gate.

"Um, excuse me," Annie said with mock offense, snatching up a battered metal canister of scented spray that stood at the center of the table. "_Fresh Linen_," she read, looking up at Joel with crooked grin. "Do I look like a peaches kinda gal?"

"Nope," Joel returned smoothly, circling around the back of her chair and gently giving her shoulder a squeeze. Annie smiled and reached up, brushing her fingertips against the back of his hand. But her smile fell just slightly as Joel let go a second later and started towards the door leading into the backyard. She looked up at Tommy and forced a smile again, nodding towards the door.

"I picked up a change of clothes for both of you. Go get cleaned up while Jan and I get dinner goin'."

Tommy nodded gratefully before following Joel out.

By the time the brothers had finished changing out back and done their best to sponge away the accumulated soot and sweat of the day, Jan and Annie had pulled together a modest dinner of canned chicken noodle soup and mashed potatoes. Percy was standing on his tip toes atop a step stool, intensely focused on a potato masher he grasped with both hands and ground into a bowl of steaming potatoes.

"Come on, Perce, that's enough," Jan said as she ladled portions of soup into several chipped bowls. Joel and Tommy drew up chairs next to Annie at the table and Jan set bowls before each of them.

Percy wrapped his arms around the bowl of potatoes and teetered slightly as he turned in place, then hopped off his step stool. Tommy patted the boy on the back as Percy shoved the bowl onto the table, grinning.

"Notta single lump," Percy said proudly. "'Cept there's skins in, 'cause Jan says they're good f'you and we shouldn't waste."

"Right," Tommy chuckled.

Joel cleared his throat, quietly ignoring Percy and Tommy as he spooned a scoop of potatoes onto one of the plates Jan passed around. "Sherman and Lee still comin' tonight, Jan?" he grunted, looking up at the older woman.

She swallowed a mouthful of chicken noodle soup and nodded. "Sundown, far as I know. Anything to add tonight?"

"Mmhmm." Joel twisted in his chair and hooked a finger under the collar of his Carhartt jacket, which he had deposited on the counter behind them. Holding up the jacket, Joel started digging through several pockets that had been hand-sewn into the interior of the jacket. One by one he pulled out a variety of objects and set them at the center of the table. A stack of cards. Two candles and a box of matches. A pocketknife with the tip broken off. Three ballpoint pens. A compass with a cracked mirror. A pair of leather gloves.

Last of all, he brought out a bottle with an orange top and peeling orange label.

"Motrin," he said, then pointed at Jan with a half-smile. "That one's for you. No sellin' it."

"Oh Joel," Jan replied, giving one of her rare smiles. She took the bottle and wrapped both hands around it like a grandmother who has just been spoiled by a doting grandson. Jan was only in her early sixties, but her fingers curled with arthritis.

"Ooh cool," Percy said, abandoning his mashed potatoes and snatching up the pocketknife. He started to fumble with it, attempting to figure out how to unfold the blade.

"Stop," Joel said abruptly, half-smile vanishing as he held out a hand. "Gimme that. It ain't a toy."

Percy's face scrunched up. "I know it ain't a toy. But I gotta be able to defend myself too, y'know. There's gangs 'n soldiers 'n people bein' idiots, like Jan says. Can I have it, huh?"

"No," Joel grunted, leaning over and snatching the knife out of Percy's grasp.

"Joel," Tommy said sharply. He shot his brother a reprimanding look, but Joel shook his head unapologetically.

"Fine," Percy snorted, angrily banging his spoon against his bowl in a clattering display of just how more interesting his soup was than Joel's pocketknife. "I don't want your stupid knife anyway. I'm learnin' to fight on my own, y'know, so what I want a stupid knife for?"

Jan suddenly shot the boy a sharp look, frowning with disapproval. "I told you not to go near the fightin' pits, Percy. Is that where you've been?"

Percy's eyes suddenly went wide, like a deer caught in the headlights.

"Percy Miles Baldwin," Jan muttered crossly, straightening. "Upstairs. Now."

"Aww _Jaaan_."

"_Now_. I told you last time and if you're not goin' to listen, you're not goin' to eat with the adults."

Brows drawing together with exaggerated poutiness, Percy scooted off of his chair, grabbed his plate of potatoes, and stamped out of the kitchen. They could hear him stamping his way all the way to the third floor.

Tommy had to smile as he watched the boy go. Percy had a way of disarming people merely by being his affable, enthusiastic self. Even angry, he was somehow endearing. He wasn't Jan's, but he lived with her. Jan said he had come to the zone with his mother, but she had died in the first year. Spores.

When Tommy turned back to the table, he was surprised to find Jan watching him. His brow wrinkled in question. "What?"

The patchwork of broken veins across Jan's cheeks glowed in the light of the kerosene lamp as a ghost of a smile drifted across her face. It vanished a second later, but she cleared her throat, looking around at all three of her guests.

"You all still thinkin' about leavin'?" she asked quietly, casually stirring her soup.

Tommy opened his mouth and glanced at Joel and Annie. Annie was absently sliding her spoon through her potatoes as if suddenly thoughtful. Joel rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth and avoided looking at Jan.

"Uh," Tommy mumbled. "We hadn't really had much time to talk about it."

Jan nodded, dropping her gaze. Then, a little too casually, and almost shrugging, she said, "Just seems like you're settlin' in pretty well here. Folks are gettin' used to havin' you around."

Joel grunted. "Folks barely talk to us."

"Goes both ways, you know," Jan said dryly, gently chiding. She tipped her head forward and fixed Joel with a look. "It helps if you try talkin' to them too."

None of them replied. Jan drew a breath and Tommy suddenly suspected she had practiced what she was about to say. "Look," Jan started, abandoning her soup. "I don't know what it's like out there. I've been here since day one. And it isn't perfect, but it's somethin'. It's security. Is that somethin' you're goin' to get out there?"

"Security at the expense of controllin' your own life," Tommy muttered, though not spitefully. Jan meant well.

"Yeah, FEDRA runs a pretty tight ship," she returned. "But it works. You play by their rules and you sleep sound at night. Can you say the same for the outside?"

No, actually. He couldn't. Tommy pressed his lips together. It had been almost unbearable at first. It seemed like Tommy had woken in the middle of the night every few seconds, jolted awake by the low rumble of voices outside or a passing military vehicle or the creak of their house's other occupants. There had been so much noise and his instincts had been wound so tight that he thought he might never sleep again. Every time he had bolted into consciousness, he had found himself reaching for a gun that wasn't there. But after a month in the Baltimore Quarantine Zone, Tommy woke now only to the sound of gunfire, the distant crack of rifles on the wall. Some rare nights, Tommy would wake only once or twice, and he would not be reaching for a gun when he did so.

Again, none of them replied.

Jan sighed and chewed her lip, absently stirring her soup again. Suddenly, however, she dropped her spoon, making them jump as it clattered against the side of her bowl. "I could talk all night about why it's better for you not to leave," she said. "But it's bull. I like you all, but truth is, I got pretty selfish reasons for wantin' you three to stay, and I don't mind tryin' to guilt you into it."

All three finally looked up, meeting her gaze. Jan reached up and pulled off her black bandana, lips pressing together.

"The gangs won't touch you," she said plainly, leaning forward and placing both hands on the table. "Your first day here, I told you folks got a lot of respect for tens, and that's why. Gravediggers are good business for the gangs. The stuff you find in the pockets of the dead infected probably makes up a good third of Baltimore's entire black market. It's bad for business to piss off tens. Not to mention, most of you are tough sons of guns that are more trouble to mess with than not."

She smiled dryly. "And barring all that, there's your boss. Jack Breslen's a…special kind of asshole, but he doesn't take kindly to folks riling up his people. If he hears about the gangs givin' trouble to gravediggers, it doesn't end well for them."

"What I mean," she continued, growing more serious, "is that you bein' here makes a difference, in this neighborhood. The gangs don't come round anymore makin' demands or roughin' people up. They know where there's tens livin', and they leave those neighborhoods alone. And if you leave, they're goin' to come back."

Annie, Joel, and Tommy glanced uncomfortably at each other. Tommy didn't doubt Jan's assertions. In the insular quarantine zone culture, he had discovered word of mouth counted for everything. Gravediggers seemed to enjoy a near hero-like status amongst average zoners, who feared infected and the outside almost to the point of superstition. A host of nicknames followed gravediggers: tens, wall-walkers, leadmen, black-fingers.

Yet before any of them could be respond, the sound of boots scraped out in the darkness of the narrow entry hall, just as a set of knuckles rapped against the open front door.

"Jan?" A man's voice.

"Sherman?" Jan said, abruptly standing. Tension flashed across her face for just a second before she forced her expression back to casual, unflappable. "Lee?"

"Yeah," the man's voice answered. It was husky, flavored with Baltimore broadness, and bored.

"Close the door and lock it." As Jan called out, she gathered up bowls and plates, clearing the table. In the entry way, they heard the door click shut and the deadbolt slide into place.

A second later, a man and woman appeared into the kitchen doorway. The man had very dark skin and short dreadlocks and he wore a stained blue windbreaker. The woman was thin and pale – too pale, in fact, unhealthily so – and had cut her hair so short that it looked almost gray, despite being black.

Tommy doubted their actual names were Sherman and Lee. Two rival gangs operated in Baltimore's D Block and Sherman and Lee both hailed from American Warlords. To prevent FEDRA from tracking down their people, each Warlord adopted an alias that corresponded to a famous American war hero.

"How goes things in old Rexy?" the man, Sherman, asked, half-smirking as he set a nylon backpack on the kitchen table.

"Better," Jan replied, jaw tight. "Now that you're here to do business, instead of make demands."

Sherman barked a sharp laugh and made a show of picking at his nails as if he could care less. "Was business then too, Jan," he grinned. "Just not the kind you liked. So what you people got for me tonight?"

Jan crossed her arms and leaned warily against the countertop. Joel, however, pushed back from the table and opened the cupboard beneath the rusty kitchen sink. He pulled out a box and set it on the table.

"That's a week's worth," he muttered, overturning the box and spilling out its contents. Most of the items were small and fairly easily concealable, but valuable. These were the bits and pieces that Tommy, Joel, and Annie had salvaged from the pockets of the dead and smuggled into Baltimore to sell. FEDRA prohibited all manner of items that fetched a high price on the black market, such as weapons and drugs. But more often, FEDRA simply could not supply enough goods for the zone's population, making otherwise mundane supplies valuable as well: non-perishable food, candles and flashlights, tape, rope, gloves, batteries, gauze. Luxuries sold especially well; people would pay a full day's rations for something as meager as a candy bar or a bottle of beer.

Both Lee and Sherman immediately bent over the table and began picking through the collection. Sherman started nodding with satisfaction, but Lee looked up with a frown.

"No pills?" she said, speaking for the first time. She always asked about pills. Her pale complexion and unnatural leanness likely stemmed from a deep addiction.

Joel's eyes narrowed defensively and he shook his head. Jan shifted where she leaned against the counter.

"Ain't much," Sherman muttered as he fingered the pocketknife.

"Two packs at the wall this week," Joel returned, tone clipped. "Three if you count today. Not a lotta time to search bodies when you've got that many to burn."

Sherman shrugged. "Ain't my problem, is it?"

Joel's expression darkened somewhat, but he said nothing as Sherman and Lee continued picking through the paltry possessions of the now-dead. After a second, Sherman grunted to himself and straightened with a bored look.

"You gotta start greasin' some palms, bro," he said.

"What?" Joel asked.

"Pay the guys on the gate," Sherman explained. "Throw somethin' their way every now and again." He raised a brow at Annie and shrugged. "Or fuck 'em. Works for some."

Annie's chair scraped hard against the floor as she flew to her feet. Beside her, Joel took a step towards Sherman, sudden anger thundering across his face. But Tommy was instantly between them, holding a hand up towards Joel and Annie and the other towards Sherman and Lee.

"Hey, easy now," Tommy muttered, looking between them. "Everybody just calm down."

Quite abruptly, Sherman started laughing. "Fuck man, you roadies are precious," he snorted. "You come in here thinkin' you can just shoot all your problems. Ain't how it goes in the zone, bro." He pointed at Joel, white teeth gleaming as he smirked and started counting off fingers. "You trade, you pay, you fuck, or you make damn sure people know you're a motherfuckin' badass they don't wanna mess with. That's how it's done here. You leave bodies behind, you bring down the fuckin' feds on your head."

Joel and Annie seemed unappeased, their expressions still flinty and murderous. But Tommy pressed his lips together, glaring at Sherman. "Nice speech," he said impatiently. "Now what're you payin' us?"

Rolling his eyes with obvious disdain, Sherman sighed and leaned over the table again. His lips pursed in thought for a moment before he shrugged. "I'll give you three cards for the lot."

Tommy felt a prickle of indignation at the measly offer, but Joel answered first.

"That ain't nothin'," Joel growled.

"It's three days rations," Sherman returned.

"Like hell it is," Joel spat. "If a card was really good for a day's rations, we wouldn't be havin' to deal with you."

Lee snorted softly, crossing her arms. "Ain't our problem either."

Yet before Joel could respond again, the entryway suddenly echoed with noise. Someone pounding hard and fast on the locked front door, rattling the metal hinges.

"_Open up!_" a sharp voice shouted outside. "_Under BQZ Ordinance 6.12.34, you are suspected of harboring known criminals and must submit to an inspection!_"

Sherman's blasé attitude vanished in an instant and he stiffened, pushing away from where he leaned against the table. Lee eyes widened and her nostrils flared like a pale white dog, cornered and desperate.

"What the _fuck_?" Sherman hissed.

"What do you mean, _'what the fuck'_?" Joel shot back in an angry whisper. "You just got here. Who the hell do you think they were followin'?"

"Stop arguing, you idiots," Jan interjected, surprisingly calm as she crossed the kitchen and stuck her head out into the black hallway. She eyed the rattling door for half a second before turning back to look at them. She kept her voice low, but controlled. "Get out of here, all of you. They find Warlords _or_ gravediggers in this house, they'll arrest every person here. Get out."

Snorting angrily, Sherman suddenly grabbed his nylon backpack and ripped it open. He positioned it under the lip of the kitchen table and started sweeping the accumulated goods into it, working quickly and carefully so as to leave nothing behind that might incriminate Jan or the rest of the household. That done, he zippered the bag shut and pushed past Joel and the others towards the back door, Lee treading in his wake. Joel, Tommy, and Annie followed a second later without a word.

Tommy glanced back at the last second to see Jan composing herself.

"Be careful," he murmured as she stepped out of the warmth of the kitchen and into the dark entry way. He could still hear the soldiers at the front door shouting, even as he latched the back door closed behind them.

Outside, it was quiet. The backyard of the row house was all cement, albeit with gangly green weeds forcing their way up through the cracks that rippled across the uneven surface. A rusting clothes drying rack stood cockeyed on a bent pole, glinting in the dim light of the kitchen windows. The rest of the backyard was already dark, the sky above an ashy gray. Despite the onset of night, however, the air was still muggy hot.

By the time that Tommy had closed the back door, Sherman and Lee were already vaulting over the shoulder-height wooden fence that divided the strips of cement backing every row house on the street. Tommy quickly joined Joel and Annie. Without a word between them, each grabbed the top of the fence and hoisted themselves up.

Tommy was suddenly acutely aware of what a month of zone life had done to him. The muscles necessary for carrying and dragging a body worked easily, but Tommy felt his stomach clench and his shoulders strain as he awkwardly struggled to throw the balance of his body over the fence and let gravity tilt him onto the other side. Three years of dodging, ducking, climbing, and crawling had quickly dissolved after a month in the relative ease of the quarantine zone.

He landed with a stumble, but kept his feet. The backyard adjoining Jan's was just as quiet as hers. A single kerosene lamp shone in the window above the kitchen sink.

The quiet was broken suddenly by Annie's angry whisper.

"Sherman! Hey!"

Sherman and Lee were wasting no time waiting for the three companions. They were already up and over another fence, landing on the other side without a word to those following them. Tommy's eyes narrowed. Sherman and Lee were fleeing with speed, and with a backpack full of the goods Joel, Tommy, and Annie had spent the week collecting.

"You son of a bitch," Joel growled beside Tommy as he suddenly sprang into motion.

Joel was big but surprisingly agile. He darted across the cement backyard and leapt towards the top of the fence with enough momentum to brace a boot against the side of the fence and hoist himself over as his fingers grappled at the top of the wooden boards. Tommy and Annie followed a second later, each grunting as they vaulted themselves over the shaky old fence.

The next yard was more of the same and Tommy barely registered it as he landed and tore after Joel and the two fleeing Warlords. As Tommy awkwardly hauled himself up yet another fence, he mentally processed their progress. There were no gaps between the staid brick row houses, but Jan's house was five houses from the end of a row. Two more fence lines and they would hit a street, which meant two more fence lines before Sherman and Lee would have open space in which to sprint at top speed.

Tommy glimpsed Joel's dark outline crossing yards and vaulting fences above him, but otherwise the world flew by in a blur of wood and cement.

By the time that Tommy landed on asphalt with a grunt, he could see Joel catching up to Sherman and Lee across the street. There was enough gray still in the sky for Tommy to make out the fact that Joel had a fistful of Sherman's shirt and had backed the Warlord up against the brick side of another house on the opposite side of the street. Lee was watching nearby, hugging herself as if unsure whether to help Sherman or continue fleeing.

"What you gonna do, big guy?" Sherman half-spat, half-laughed as he backpedaled until his shoulders hit the brick wall behind him. "Gonna bloody me up, right here in the middle of the street?"

Joel looked tempted, but he only tipped his head forward angrily and kept Sherman pinned against the wall.

"You're gonna pay us before you take off," Joel growled as Annie and Tommy joined him, both out of breath. "Six cards."

"Are you fuckin' stupid?" Lee suddenly said, seeming to make up her mind to stay as she stepped closer to Sherman's side. "You don't get to call the shots round here, roach."

Sherman snorted in Joel's face, echoing Lee's sentiment. "Warlords don't negotiate, you fuckin' hick. Not even with tens. You should be grateful we offered _three_ cards."

Joel moved quickly. Still holding Sherman by the collar, Joel's free hand flew out, throwing a fist straight into Sherman's gut. The Warlord doubled at the waist, only to be jerked upright by Joel a second later. Lee suddenly spray forward as if to lay into Joel, but Tommy caught her wrist and pulled her back. She continued flailing, but her addiction had made her thin and weak and, however acidic her tongue might be, it was an easy task for Tommy to restrain her.

"I look grateful to you?" Joel said sharply as Sherman coughed from the force of Joel's punch. "Six cards."

Lee spat as she struggled against Tommy's hold on her. "Who they hell do you think you are? You're nobody here, roadies. You ain't fuckin' nothin'."

"Who the fuck do _you_ think we are?" Annie returned coldly. She pointed sideways and slightly up, as if indicating outside the wall. "You think infected are the real problem out there? Damn, you zoners are so fuckin' oblivious. It's people like you who's the problem. We knew how to deal with you out _there_ and we sure as hell know how to deal with you in _here_." She paused. "And it don't take a fuckin' bullet to do it."

Sweat shone across Sherman's black brow, but his expression twisted with disdain. Nothing remained of the bored disinterest he had shown back at Jan's house. "You people got no fuckin' idea," he growled, breathing hard. "You don't keep your noses clean round here, the Warlords'll come down on this neighborhood so hard you won't even know what hit you."

Again, Joel moved quickly. He slammed a fist into Sherman's stomach, paused just long enough for Sherman to gasp, then punched him a second time. Sherman started wheezing as Joel once again hauled him upright and pinned him against the brick wall. Although nearly as tall as Joel, Sherman was thin and gangly. His entire body jerked and slammed against the wall every time Joel punched him.

"Lemme tell you how this gonna go," Joel muttered, surprisingly collected as he leaned into Sherman and spoke in a low, terse tone. "You're gonna pay us six cards. You're gonna tell your people it was a good deal. You're gonna come back next week and deal fair with us. You're gonna keep comin' back every week and deal fair with us." He paused, jaw clenched.

"And you're gonna tell your people that Rexmere is ours. You deal with _us_. You don't touch anyone else. Got it?"

Sherman's head lolled, but he gave no response. Still holding a fistful of Sherman's shirt, Joel pulled the Warlord away from the wall and then slammed him back against it. The back of Sherman's head cracked hard against brick.

"What're you gonna do?" Joel said coolly.

Sherman's eyes seemed to focus, but defiance still simmered in them. His mouth fell open, but again he gave no response.

Joel slammed Sherman against the wall again and held him there at arm's length.

"_What_ are you gonna do?" Joel growled.

Sherman spat blood, likely from biting his tongue during Joel's rough treatment. Joel flinched away, but most of the blood dribbled down Sherman's chin. Moving sluggishly, as if the slams against the brick wall had muddled his thoughts, Sherman slowly lifted his hand and fumbled awkward fingers into the front pocket of the windbreaker he wore. He pulled out a sheaf of ration cards.

Joel snatched the cards out of Sherman's hand, quickly counted out six, then shoved the remaining cards back into the Warlord's pocket. Sherman did not resist.

"And?" Joel said.

Sherman scrunched up his eyes and shook his head as if to clear it. "And..." he muttered listlessly. "And...and same next week."

Joel nodded. "And?"

"And..." Sherman attempted to draw a deep breath, but winced from the pain Joel had dealt his midsection. Instead, he gave a brittle sigh.

"And Rexmere's off limits."

Again Joel nodded sharply. He pulled on the front of Sherman's shirt, hauling the Warlord away from the wall and shoving him towards the street. Joel released Sherman and gestured for Tommy to do the same for Lee.

Sherman stumbled to his knees on the asphalt, but Lee was at his side in an instant, helping him come shakily to his feet.

"Now get the hell out," Joel growled, pointing.

Without a word to the three gravediggers, Sherman and Lee turned and started staggering away up the street. Annie and Tommy stepped up to either side of Joel as all three watched the Warlords flee.

After a second, Annie said quietly, "You know that won't be the end of it, right?"

"Yeah," Joel sighed heavily, suddenly sounding tired as he rubbed the red knuckles of the hand he had used to beat Sherman. Shoulders slumping slightly, Joel looked down and started divvying up to the ration cards he held, handing two each to Tommy and Annie.

Tommy glanced sidelong at Joel, then up again at the retreating silhouettes of Sherman and Lee. "Guess this means we're stayin'?"

Joel's expression darkened again.

"Yeah," he answered, steady and unflinching.

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks for reading and reviewing! Remember to Follow if you want email alerts whenever I update, and check my profile for status updates in between new chapters. The good news is that a school competition I've been participating in wrapped up this week, so I'm hoping I might be able to get out updates a little sooner than the two week time period I stated last time. No promises, but I'll do my best! As always, I appreciate your support and the comments left in reviews!<br>**

**I hope you enjoyed this latest chapter. :) I figure zone life is easier in many ways and harder in others, and I think Joel and Tommy are getting a taste of both. Tune in next time as the threats they face in Baltimore begin to come together and our two brothers clash over how best to survive in their new home.**

**PS - Credit to my frequent reviewer CT230R for Jan's line about Breslen being a "special kind of asshole" - loved that line too much not to use it! ;)**


	14. Chapter 14 - Desert Kings

Chapter 14

_January 18, 2018, Morning_

Tommy woke so suddenly that he could still smell blood and gunpowder, even as his spinning vision slowly focused on the motionless ceiling fan above him.

A shiver ran the length of his spine as the frigid bedroom air slipped down Tommy's neck and grasped at the shirt he had soaked with cold sweat. He had not woken reaching for a gun, but he suddenly felt like he would very much like one in hand right now.

Drawing a long, shaky breath, Tommy blinked several times as he tried to recall what had so abruptly jolted him from unconsciousness. An ugly taste lingered in his mouth, or at least that was what his dream-laden brain was telling him. He grunted and sat up in bed, letting the covers fall away from his chest and running a hand through his hair.

A gas station with a giant garish Stetson hat mounted above it. Ah, that was it. Like a puzzle missing half its pieces, wisps of Tommy's nightmare settled back into place. He remembered the station, somewhere in middle-of-nowhere Arizona, filled with plastic toy guns and cheap Native American bowls and baskets. Called something unoriginal, like The Watering Hole or something like that.

Joel and Tommy had pulled in there on two black Harleys like desert kings, each wearing black aviators, bandanas across their mouths and noses, desert dust gathered thick in their hair. It had been middle of winter, but a balmy 65 degrees in southern Arizona. Joel had bought Tommy a kid's cowboy hat with a shiny plastic sheriff's badge glinting on the front and insisted the birthday boy had to wear it for as long as it would stay on in the wind as they rode.

Tommy started to smile at the memory, but a cold shiver stole over him again as the dream haze continued to lift and he began to recall the rest of the nightmare. Unlike the real Watering Hole – dusty, gaudy, and hot – the Watering Hole of Tommy's dream world had been cold and dark, with glaring lights pouring out of its glass front doors. Joel had been idling on a black Harley out front, but when he stood from the motorcycle, he had transformed into a soldier in military fatigues and a gas mask, pointing an assault rifle somewhere off into the distance. A little girl's scream. Tommy had raised a revolver and fired. The soldier's head had jerked violently with a spray of blood.

_Let's see what we got_. A voice flavored by rural Mississippi. Troy's voice, growling a familiar phrase, at once comforting and chilling. Tommy crouched and came to his knees beside the soldier. Pulled off the mask. A bloody face. Joel's face.

Tommy's breath caught in his chest and he shook his head to banish the haunting nightmare from his mind. He breathed slow and deep and let his gaze wander to the room's single window, where the dim gray light of pre-dawn was just beginning to creep into the bare bedroom. Tommy gathered his knees to his chest and buried his face into the bunched blankets, hands clasped behind his head.

Downstairs, he heard voices.

Lifting his head, Tommy listened for a second. He shared a room now with Jan and Percy, but a quick glance behind him confirmed that Jan's bed was empty, while Percy was still curled up on the worn leather loveseat beside the door. The door was slightly ajar and the house had paper thin walls. Tommy breathed lightly and listened again.

"—talkin' to him?" Jan was talking.

"He wouldn't talk even if I tried." That was Annie's voice.

"Sounds like you tried last night."

A pause. "Yeah…But he just shuts off, Jan. He snaps back sometimes, but mostly he just walks away."

Tommy slowly drew a breath, recalling now the row that he had heard between Annie and Joel the night before, stamping all over the third floor above. It had mostly been Annie doing the talking, though Tommy had heard Joel's muffled grunts through the ceiling every now and again.

The clink of glass below suggested someone had placed a plate or glass on the kitchen table. Annie spoke again, sounding tired and distracted.

"I don't know why," she was saying. "I just…I thought things would be different here. You know, not like it was before, but close enough. Out there, I'm fine bein' _that girl_. That's what you gotta do. You just…get used to wearin' that mask, puttin' up those walls. I thought it'd be different here...Yeah, that's a fuckin' joke."

"Annie," Jan's voice said gently as a chair scraped. "Maybe he just needs more time."

A long pause. So long that Tommy started to wonder if they had concluded the conversation with unspoken words and knowing stares. But a second later, Annie spoke again.

"No," she said sadly. "He doesn't. He's just...that way. It's like somethin' broke in him." Another pause. "And I know what. Tommy told me once. He lost somebody. I mean, who hasn't? But...he just can't get past it. Or won't."

"And he knows how you feel?" Jan asked.

The sound of Annie clearing her throat. Tommy imagined her nodding. "He cares," she continued a second later, as if shrugging the sentiment away. "And even after everything, I still think he's a good man. He's…we've all done some pretty awful things, but he'd do anything for me or Tommy. But I just...it's like a part of him's just...gone."

Tommy's heart sank and suddenly he wanted to hear no more. He threw the blankets off and swung his legs off the bed, letting his feet hit the floorboards louder than was necessary. He stood quickly and made a point of being extra loud as he started pulling on fresh clothes and lacing up his boots. Percy groaned on the couch and rolled grumpily in his sleep, but otherwise snoozed on with child-like bliss.

Tommy found the two women in the kitchen, both seated at the center table with mugs of some sweet-smelling drink that passed as tea in front of them. He was pulling on a wool cap as his boots scraped against the kitchen floorboards, but he noted the strained smiles they both gave him, as if they were silently wondering how much, if any, of their conversation he might have heard upstairs.

He smiled awkwardly. "Mornin', ladies."

"Mornin'," each of the mumbled in return.

"Uh," Tommy said, clearing his throat. "You seen Joel?"

Jan gently shook her head, then turned away and started gathering up a couple of plates from the table. Annie also shook her head, though Tommy noted that nothing in her expression conveyed the same lonely sadness that he had heard in her tone when the two women had been talking by themselves. Annie's demeanor was tough and impenetrable, as it usually was whenever Tommy saw her.

"He, uh," Tommy started, "he didn't say?"

"He left before we were awake," Annie replied, absently tracing the shape of a knot in the wooden table with the tip of her finger.

"Oh, okay." Tommy cleared his throat again, then zippered his jacket and pulled the collar up under his ears. He turned to leave, but paused and looked sideways back at Annie.

"Uh, thanks," he mumbled. "You have a good day now, both of you."

Annie and Jan nodded their silent acknowledgment and Tommy turned away again, sighing as he headed for the front door.

* * *

><p>Baltimore was shitty in snow. Locals said the city saw several snowstorms every year, and every few years, a particularly nasty one. Tommy was pretty sure this was one of those years.<p>

Snow piled in three-foot high drifts against the sides of buildings and abandoned cars. It was less thick in the middle of the streets, but even then, Tommy found himself sinking to his knees as he trudged with his hands stuck into his pockets. The walk from Rexmere to the southern wall usually took him 40 minutes; this morning it had taken more than twice as long, and he was soaked to his waist by the time he arrived.

The area around the main southern gate, formally called South Gate One, was usually bustling with activity. Aside from bearing the brunt of infected attacks, South One also housed the central military command complex for Baltimore, home of the BQZ Chief Commander – a man named Merringer whom none but the top brass ever saw – as well as numerous other ranking officers.

Today, however, South One seemed busier than normal, which was unusual given the general sense of hibernation that had started to grip the zone after a solid week of snow and sub-freezing temperatures. Tommy hugged his arms around himself as he approached the double-wide mobile home that had been converted into a supply depot for Baltimore's gravedigging crews. He ignored the activity around him. One thing Joel had successfully pounded into him: don't ask questions of the military unless they ask questions of you.

"Shut it down, Jack."

The angry command of a tall officer exiting the mobile home brought Tommy's attention up, but he dropped his gaze a second later as Colonel Breslen appeared in the doorway behind the unfamiliar officer and followed him down the steps. The other officer looked older than Breslen, and was both taller and thinner, but he wore FEDRA blue. They were one in the same these days – FEDRA and the military – but some like Breslen clung stubbornly to their old military fatigues. This other officer did not.

"Yessir," Breslen said in reply, clasping his hands behind his back as he and the other man came to stand in the snow at the base of the mobile home.

"I'm serious, Jack," the older officer said sharply. "A month and our ration levels will be lower than '16. And now this. We're not going through another set of winter riots. We shut this down _now_. You do whatever it takes, but you get your people back in line or I'll find someone who can. Understand?"

"Yessir," Breslen answered gruffly without elaboration.

The blue-clad officer pursed his lips, but nodded and turned away, taking long strides towards the military's command complex squatting in the distance. Breslen stood in place for several long seconds, glaring at the snow in thought. When he glanced up and caught sight of Tommy a moment later, the thoughtfulness vanished but the glare remained.

"Tommy," the colonel growled, pointing an accusatory finger. "You come with me. _Now_."

Tommy pressed his lips together to bite back a smart remark. Fighting Breslen this early in the morning would hardly make the rest of Tommy's already cold and miserable day any better. The colonel turned and Tommy fell into step behind him without a word.

Breslen led the way away from the area directly adjoining South Gate One and headed instead towards a set of short apartment buildings that had been converted into military offices. There were three buildings in all, each forming a side of a large cement square. FEDRA had converted the square into a compound of sorts, setting up chain link fences across the fourth side of the square and between each of the buildings. On the rare occasions that outsiders were admitted to the zone, this was typically where they were held until someone could process their paperwork.

This morning, however, there was a sizeable group of people assembled within the compound, perhaps twenty in all. Soldiers were posted all around the fences, glaring inward with assault rifles strapped across their chests. Tommy realized abruptly that he recognized many of the faces within. MD Syndicate, Baltimore Blacks, American Warlords, B Block Bloods, West Hill Disciples, Red Raven Brotherhood. These were BQZ gang members. Not high-ranking members, but the faces people were accustomed to seeing in the streets. Tommy even recognized a member of the Leadmen Lighters, a rarely-seen gang comprised mostly of former gravediggers now operating primarily as full-time smugglers.

This was bad. FEDRA largely left the gangs alone, so long as they didn't create too much ruckus. If they had gathered them here, something was amiss.

Joel was leaning, arms crossed, against the side of one of the apartment buildings as Breslen and Tommy neared the entrance to the compound. He pushed away from the brick wall as he caught sight of the two of them, as if he had been waiting for their arrival.

"Colonel," Joel said, nodding first at Breslen, then at Tommy. Tommy shot his brother a questioning look, eyes flicking to the compound full of gang members, but Joel shook his head and shrugged.

Breslen did not return the greeting. He pointed at two soldiers in blue uniforms beside the compound gate. "Sauler, Martin," he barked as the man and woman snapped to attention. "Get the woman. The pill popper."

The two soldiers saluted without a word and turned to open the compound gate. Other military personnel outside the fences levelled their rifles at those gathered inside to prevent any funny business, but they need not have bothered. The crowd parted easily as the two soldiers waded in amongst them. Many of these gang members were rivals – they weren't about to protect others in their midst.

A few minutes later, the soldiers returned to the front of the compound, each on either side of a pale, thin woman with very short hair. It was Lee, of the American Warlords. If anything, she had grown paler and thinner in the months since Tommy and Joel had first begun dealing with her. Her pinched white face twisted into a glare as she caught sight of them.

Tommy kept his expression confused and questioning, as if he did not recognize her.

"Over there," Breslen muttered, grabbing Lee's shoulder and shoving her roughly towards the side of one of the apartment buildings as the two soldiers closed the compound gate. Lee stumbled forward.

"Turn around," the colonel grunted. Lee turned and placed her back against the brick wall behind her. Her eyes were wide and wary, sunk so deep into her skull by prolonged drug use that her face looked almost hollow.

Breslen waved Tommy and Joel forward until they were standing in front of Lee. The soldiers Sauler and Martin, Tommy noted, had followed and now stood directly behind them. Tommy felt his skin begin to crawl.

"Do you know this woman?" Breslen said, squinting at the two brothers.

Neither Tommy nor Joel immediately answered. Tommy looked sideways at his brother as he kept his face carefully arranged in confusion. But Joel was an awful actor. He was frowning with his head tipped forward, and when he shook his head and shrugged a second later, he seemed too nonchalant.

"No," Joel muttered. "Why?"

Breslen looked neither surprised nor convinced. "Do you know this woman?" he repeated, louder this time.

"We just told you no," Tommy said, more sharply than he should have.

The colonel let out an impatient breath, half rolled his eyes, then abruptly pulled a pistol from his belt. He brought it to bear on Tommy and Joel, both of whom instantly raised their hands in alarm.

"_Do you know this woman?_" Breslen growled, quite loudly. Those gathered within the fenced compound were taking notice now and casting wary stares in their direction.

"Just by reputation," Joel answered suddenly, speaking fast with his head bowed as he stared down the barrel of Breslen's gun. "She's a Warlord. American Warlord. Them and the Syndicate run the streets in D Block. That's what we know."

"That so?" Breslen said. "'Cause that's not how she recalls it. In fact, she seems pretty damn convinced that she's been dealin' with you two since pretty much the day you arrived. Tradin' the loot you smuggle in off bodies outside the wall. That ringin' any bells, boys?"

Tommy snorted. "You gonna take the word of some woman you got locked up, Colonel? Ain't like she has a reason to lie to get out of here or anythin'."

"She knew your names," Breslen growled in return.

"We're known. Nobody stands up to the gangs 'cept tens. The Warlords leave Rexmere alone 'cause we're there. So yeah, she probably knows our names."

The colonel scowled, his red cheeks growing even more colored with the cold and his dwindling patience.

"I am tasked with shutting down the illegal trade between _my_ people and these leeches," Breslen explained, gesturing towards Lee with disgust, as if personally affronted by the black market perpetuated by Baltimore's gangs and gravedigging crews. "Are you telling me these Warlords leave you alone just because you _tell them to_?"

Neither brother answered. Breslen's expression darkened.

"I don't fuckin' believe you," he spat.

What he did next was so abrupt and unexpected that Tommy barely registered it until it was done.

Breslen swung his pistol around to point at Lee's head and pulled the trigger. The woman had just enough time for her jaw to fall open in surprise, then the wall behind her exploded in a gout of blood. Lee's body fell to the ground, throwing chaotic ribbons of dark red across the pristine white snow.

Breslen scowled as if annoyed by the mess, but was otherwise indifferent to the dead woman now slumped at his feet.

"Get them inside," he grunted, using the tip of his pistol to gesture impatiently for the two soldiers to take Tommy and Joel into the apartment building nearest them.

The crowd within the compound had gone very quiet and very still.

Hands still raised above their hands, Tommy and Joel wordlessly complied with Breslen's order. They glanced at each other, eyes wide and mouths open, breathing fast and shallow. Tommy felt a shiver run through him and knew it had nothing to do with the cold.

The two soldiers marched them through the open front door of the apartment building, where other FEDRA personnel were milling about with a distinct air of deliberately ignoring the two brothers. Breslen followed without a word. They passed a line of old metal mailboxes and a staircase leading upstairs, headed instead for the back of the building. They left the main foyer behind and entered what looked like it had once been a communal laundry room, with washers and dryers stacked on top of each other on both sides of the long room. A table and two chairs sat at the center, a small propane heater gently rumbling away on the floor.

Breslen shut the door behind them. Light streamed into through several high windows set above the stacked washing machines.

"Sit," he muttered.

Slowly lowering their hands, Tommy and Joel eased uncomfortably into the two chairs. Immediately, the soldiers Sauler and Martin moved behind them. Without instruction from Breslen, the woman suddenly grabbed Tommy's hands as if to tie them behind the back of Tommy's chair.

"What the he—" Tommy started to say.

"Don't fuckin' struggle," Breslen growled, pulling his pistol from his belt again and casually pointing it at Tommy.

Tommy stared at the colonel, lips parted. Yet he did not resist when the woman resumed her work, pulling his hands behind the chair and cinching them together with what felt like zip-ties. She moved around to stand in front of him and stooped, threading zip-ties behind his legs and around his ankles. Beside Tommy, Joel was being similarly restrained by the second soldier. Joel's expression was stony.

"What the fuck is this, colonel?" Tommy suddenly asked angrily. "We already—"

"Shut up," Breslen said as he leaned himself up against the front of a washer and crossed his arms, watching the two soldiers work. When they had finished and both Tommy and Joel sat with hands tied and ankles cinched, the two soldiers looked up expectantly at Breslen. Pursing his lips, the colonel gave a single curt nod.

The woman positioned herself in front of Tommy, staring down at him. The man came to stand before Joel. Both brothers glared back at their captors with a mix of wariness and defiance, waiting for the unexpected.

Suddenly the man's fist flew out, striking Joel square across the cheekbone. Tommy started to open his mouth to protest when the woman followed suit, throwing a fist straight into his left temple. His head suddenly rang with the shock of the blow and black specks burst across his vision. A second later, she punched him again, this time landing a fist between eye and nose. Tommy grunted, blinking. He jerked suddenly, attempting to kick out at the woman, but seated as he was, with his ankles tied together, the resistance was awkward and weak and she easily skipped out of the way. Again she punched him in the head, this time almost certainly blacking an eye. And then again. And again.

Seven or eight times she must have laid into him before she relented and backed away, rubbing her knuckles with an indifferent expression. Tommy could feel blood streaming down from his nose and into his beard, and he ran his tongue across a split lip, spitting blood as he did so. A glance at Joel confirmed that his brother's treatment had been much the same. It was far too soon for bruising to appear, but Joel's face was an angry red in places and the skin had been torn above his temple and beneath one eye. He was slumping forward, head hanging towards his lap as he took labored, shallow breaths.

"Get out," Breslen grunted impatiently, waving the two soldiers towards the door.

Tommy looked up, one eye already swelling as he spat a thick mouthful of bloody saliva onto the floor.

The colonel watched as the two soldiers exited the laundry room and shut the door behind them. Breslen pursed his lips for a second, then pushed away from where he had been leaning against a washer. He came around and lightly perched on the edge of the table in front of Tommy and Joel, crossing his arms.

"Here's what just happened," Breslen muttered, voice low and terse. The bags beneath his eyes bunched as he squinted at them. "You two got dragged in here and beaten bloody because that old curr Jack Breslen's crackin' down on the black market trade between leadmen and the gangs. Everybody knows he's got it out for you two. But tough sons a bitches that you are, you didn't say nothin'. Hell, he blew the head off a goddamn woman right in front of you, then dragged you in here and laid into you like there weren't no tomorrow, and still you wouldn't talk. But now you've got a bone to pick with old Breslen.

"In fact, you're so fuckin' fed up with the goddamn _injustice_ here," he continued, cocking his head in particular at Tommy, "that you suddenly find yourself sympathizin' with any bastard willing to give FEDRA a hard time. I'm not planning on repeatin' myself, so you better be understanding me."

Joel looked up and clenched his jaw, but did not answer. Tommy blinked, licking his split lip again as he mumbled, "What the hell are you talkin' about?" He could hear his words slur.

The colonel sighed impatiently and pursed his lips, but shifted slightly to lean forward. "You know of an officer named Major Frank Vermont?"

Tommy shook his head, but Joel nodded slowly, still hunched forward against his restraints. "Head of ration distribution," he muttered.

Breslen nodded. "Frequently accused of withholding rations or unequally distributing them, because some people still haven't fuckin' figured out it ain't 2013 anymore and we can't just pop down to Walmart when the pantry gets low."

He paused, then grunted as if vaguely annoyed. "He was shot early this mornin', along with two of his bodyguards. All three killed."

Tommy could not find much within him that cared. He had never bothered to learn the names of those in charge of ration distribution, but he not infrequently shared the sentiment that soldiers and other FEDRA favorites ate better than regular citizens. More to the point, however, murder was not uncommon in Baltimore. Sure, this was a senior officer, but what was one more death among hundreds?

"Top brass are blamin' the gangs," Breslen continued. "Say they're gettin' unruly and need to be shut down. But I don't give a damn about the gangs." He uncrossed his arms and started counting off fingers. "American Sons, Stars and Stripes, Fireflies, Eastern Alliance, Continentals, New Weather Underground. All militia groups waging war on FEDRA, infecting zones from New York to LA. But not here, not 'til recently. Baltimore had earlier riots than most zones, instituted marshal law earlier than any zone on the eastern seaboard. So these bastards haven't gotten much of a hold here yet. But that's changin', and the people who _should_ be noticing, _aren't_."

"What's it gotta do with us?" Tommy spat, still tasting blood.

"I'm not a moron," Breslen growled. "I know damn well every single one of my gravediggers deals business with the gangs. This zone isn't as watertight as my superiors would like to believe. And frankly, I don't give a damn. You make as many side deals as you want; at the end of the day, you still get scanned in, and if you come up positive, you're shot. That's all I care about. More to the point, I know the gangs aren't stupid enough to ruin the good game they got goin' here by targeting the military."

He paused, hard gray eyes flicking to Tommy as his frown deepened. "Only a special breed of idiot attacks FEDRA," he grunted. "Idealists."

Neither Tommy nor Joel said anything.

"We've dealt with them before and we'll deal with them now," Breslen continued. "But these outside militias aren't disorganized street rabble. They've got plans, resources, networks. And I guarantee Baltimore's gangs are a part of that, supplyin' weapons and ammo, providing safehouses, smuggling their people in and out. That's where _you_ come in."

Tommy snorted. It was mostly to clear his still bleeding nose, but Breslen scowled at the reaction and leaned forward, placing both hands on his knees. "You cooperate and you can keep your little black market trade goin'. I don't give two shits if you want to loot the bodies of the dead, so long as you don't bring the infection in here."

"What d'you want us doin'?" Joel said abruptly, straightening finally and setting his jaw. Joel never had put much store in blind pride. He did not attempt to look rebellious or grudgingly resigned as Tommy might have. Instead, Joel's expression was dispassionate; he would hear what the colonel had to say and consider it in earnest.

Breslen looked slightly mollified. "You've got a bone to pick with me now, and half the gangs in Baltimore saw why," he growled, tone growing patronizing. "Now it's time to even the playin' field, show the goddamn military they can't just drag _innocents_ into laundry rooms and beat them up whenever they like. They can't just shoot people in the streets."

He paused, then became more serious. "I want names. I want safehouse locations. I want smuggling routes. I want to know which resistance groups we're dealing with. I want to know which gangs are supplyin' guns and where they're getting them from."

Tommy squinted, grimacing slightly as the movement throbbed pain through his swollen eye. But his expression had hardened, defiance writ clear across his face despite the blood and bruising starting to appear.

"And if we refuse?" he grunted.

Breslen was very still. He stared at Tommy, still casually pointing his pistol as he regarded Tommy with a frown almost completely devoid of emotion. He looked irritated, but that was nothing new. It was as if Tommy's continued stubbornness elicited nothing more than a mild sense of annoyance in a man utterly accustomed to getting what he wanted.

Breslen stood. He let out an impatient breath and let his eyes flicker to the ceiling like a father vexed by a willful child. But in the next moment, he stooped and swung the hand holding the pistol backwards, not at Tommy's face, but at his knee. Breslen swung hard and fast and before Tommy could even widen his eyes in surprise, the butt of the pistol collided with the side of Tommy's knee.

Instantly, pain exploded through the entire joint and shot up and down his leg. The shock of the blow silenced Tommy for a second, but then his shattered nerve ends rocketed to his brain and ripped an uncontrolled scream from him as he bucked violently against his restraints. How long he yelled, he couldn't say, but when his blurred vision finally cleared enough for him to see, he glanced down to see the abnormal lump on the outside of his left knee. Breslen had dislocated the kneecap in a single vicious blow.

As Tommy's breath came ragged and frantic and he hunched forward against his tied hands, Breslen leaned down to look Tommy square in the eyes. His expression was colorless, his demeanor unconcerned.

"I am not giving you a choice," he growled, low and slow.

"I don't need permission to shoot you. I don't need permission to shoot your brother. I don't need permission to shoot anyone you care about. This is the end of the fuckin' world, boy. A few more bodies is just a few more bodies to burn."

* * *

><p>Tommy clamped down on the handle of the wooden spoon and let a muffled cry of pain rumble through him. He lay on his back on the bed he usually slept on, with Percy pinning both arms above him and Joel putting all his weight on Tommy's ankles to keep Tommy's legs from thrashing too violently. Jan crouched beside his misshapen knee, using her palm to push the lump that was his dislocated kneecap back into place.<p>

There was no audible sound when it finally snapped into position, but the relief was instant. The throbbing that continued to emanate out from Tommy's knee was by no means dull, but he no longer felt as if the world was about to end if he moved his knee another fraction of an inch. Percy released Tommy's arms and Joel let go his ankles, but Tommy simply lay there, limp and sweating, his chest heaving.

"Better?" Jan asked tentatively.

"Unh," Tommy grunted in reply. He let go of the bed's headboard, which he had been gripping because Percy was too small to completely restrain Tommy's arms. Shaking, Tommy took the wooden spoon from his mouth and noted the teeth marks imprinted into the handle now. Perspiration glistened on his brow, despite the frigid bedroom interior.

The walk back to Rexmere from South Gate One had been excruciating, as Tommy had used Joel as a crutch and unsuccessfully attempted to keep his leg completely immobile as he hopped through thigh-high snow. He had been sweating and grinding his teeth for two solid hours, so much so that he had hardly noticed the sub-freezing temperatures.

"Perce, the ice," Jan said, nodding.

Eyes still wide as he stared at Tommy, Percy left off his post at Tommy's head and retrieved a plastic bag filled with broken icicles that they had gathered from the low overhang in the backyard. The bag was just an old shopping bag and so Percy wrapped it in a dishrag to prevent it from leaking as the icicles started to melt. He handed it to Jan, who laid it gently atop Tommy's swollen knee.

"There," she sighed, helping Tommy sit up and place his back against the headboard. "Keep it on 15 minutes, then off for half an hour. Should be 15 minutes every hour, really, but we'll run out of icicles if we wait that long. And keep it elevated. How long is Breslen givin' you off?"

"Two days," Joel grunted, expression stony. His face was bruising a bright array of black and blue. Tommy doubted his own face looked much better.

Jan snorted. "That's insane. You don't move for two days then. When Annie gets home tonight, I'll see if she can't barter for a few of those hand warmers the Warlords were sellin' last week, so we can get some heat on there. In the meantime, I'll see if anybody on the street has somethin' we can wrap your leg tight with, 'cause it's goin' to hurt like hell when you start movin' it around again."

"Good thing it don't hurt like hell now, then," Tommy grumbled breathlessly, voice laden with sarcasm.

"Jan, you mind?" Joel said quietly, nodding at Tommy, then at the door, as if he wished to speak to his brother alone.

Jan nodded and stood from where she had been crouched beside the bed.

"Hey hey hey," Percy suddenly said rapid fire, pushing past Jan. "Dun forget I got these too." He held out a sodden wash cloth towards Tommy, who took it with as much of a smile as he could muster around his swelling face.

"And you," Percy continued, holding up another wet wash cloth towards Joel. Unlike Tommy, however, Joel glared down at the proffered rag and shook his head, impatiently waving the boy away. Percy's face screwed up angrily and he reached up and pushed the sodden cloth into the front of Joel's shirt as if to force Joel to catch it when Percy let go. But only annoyance flashed across Joel's face.

"_Jesus Christ_, Percy," Joel growled angrily, catching the cloth and throwing it to the floor. "I'm already soaked from the goddamn snow. I said I didn't want it."

"You din't say _nothin'_," Percy spat back, balling his fists.

"For Christ's sake," Joel said. "Do I need to tell you everythin'? I shook my head, didn't I?"

"_Joel_." Both Tommy and Jan spoke at the same time, though Jan sounded chiding where Tommy sounded pissed off.

Joel gave a pinched sigh and clenched his jaw. "Please?" he said, again gesturing sharply towards the door.

"Come on, Perce, leave the boys alone." Jan gently steered Percy away from Tommy's bed. The boy shot a parting scowl at Joel, then followed Jan out of the room. Joel closed the door behind them.

"What the _fuck_, Joel?" Tommy hissed, once they were gone.

"_What?_" Joel returned, glaring.

"Would it kill you to be nice to the kid just once?"

"He ain't my responsibility, Tommy."

"Well, thank god for that," Tommy snorted. "Because you'd be doin' a pretty shitty job if he was." He used the wet cloth he held to dab gingerly at the dried blood under his nose. "You don't have to fuckin' take him fishin'. Just try bein' _nice_ to him for a change. Kid's just tryin' to help."

Joel stooped to snatch up the cloth he had thrown to floor, but his expression remained obstinate. "He's just lookin' for attention. I don't gotta deal with that."

"Of course he's lookin' for some fuckin' attention, Joel," Tommy growled, his voice rising. "He's _seven_. You couldn't peel Sarah off your goddamn leg at that age."

Joel froze, still lightly grasping the wet rag in one hand. His eyes shot to Tommy, expression cold.

"I'm not his dad," Joel said, voice tight.

Tommy grimaced as he straightened against the headboard, but the shakiness in his breath came from the shiver that had started in his chest. He ignored the stabbing tenderness of his knee as he adjusted the bag of ice to keep it from sliding off.

"I didn't say that," he muttered sharply. "But how about you start actin' like a fuckin' human bein' around him? Jesus, Joel. Stop actin' like you gotta adopt the kid just to say fuckin' _thank you_."

Joel's expression darkened and he threw the cloth he held at Tommy's chest, but he said nothing in response. He turned away to look at the window.

Tommy's temper abruptly flared at his brother's silent obstinacy. "_Say somethin', goddamnit!_" he shouted. "All you ever do is walk away, refuse to talk about anythin', and keep your fuckin' head down. Christ, Joel!"

Joel's head spun round to glare back at Tommy, but the lines of his face hardened. "Better'n shootin' my goddamn mouth off all the time!" he suddenly bellowed back, crossing the room in two long steps to loom angrily above Tommy's bed before turning around and pacing away just as angrily.

"What the hell are you talkin' about?"

Joel snorted and threw his hands into the air. "Christ's sake, Tommy. You push Breslen every chance you get. Maybe you try leavin' him alone for once and you wouldn't be sittin' there with a busted leg and a bloody nose."

Tommy balled his hands into fists and slammed one furiously against the headboard behind him. "You can't be fuckin' serious. You think playin' nice woulda fixed this? What happened to _your_ face then, huh? You walk into a fuckin' door while your buddy Breslen was welcomin' you to the good ol' boys club?"

"At least I ain't sittin' in bed with my knee tore up."

"Damn, you're right," Tommy said sarcastically. "I should just settle for bein' somebody's punchin' bag and consider myself lucky!"

"Maybe you should!"

Tommy pounded the headboard behind him again. He wished like hell that he was not bedridden, because he wanted nothing more than to get up into Joel's face right now, rather than shout at him from across the room.

"How can you fuckin' _say_ that?" Tommy yelled. "Jesus Christ, Joel. Jesus. How can you settle for that?"

"Tommy," Joel said sharply, though he lowered his voice. He pointed towards the window and the street below. "Look around you. You think just 'cause the gangs leave Rexmere alone that we're _anythin'_ here? Breslen shoots a goddamn Warlord is broad daylight. You think him or anybody's gonna care about a coupla tens? We're _nothin'_ here."

"That should _bother_ you, Joel," Tommy gritted out through clenched teeth. "Gettin' beaten up for no reason? Gettin' threatened into helpin' the military? That should piss you the hell off."

"It doesn't," Joel replied coldly. "C'mon, boy. You knew this when we were on the road. You don't piss off the guy holdin' a gun to your head. You don't piss him off enough to put the gun to your head in the first place."

"This is different, Joel. This place ain't goin' anywhere. We're supposed to be figurin' out a life here, not just livin' day to day. And if I'm gonna be livin' here, I'm gonna say when I got a problem with how they do things. Shootin' infected or highwaymen is one thing. Shootin' people for pissin' you off ain't the same."

Joel had stopped pacing next the window. He turned back to look at Tommy, his features thrown into shadow by the pale reflection of the snow-covered street below. But he was hunched forward and Tommy thought he saw incredulity spread across his brother's grim face. Joel turned to look out the window, then up at the ceiling, as if struggling to respond to Tommy's assertions. Finally, Joel shook his head and started back towards Tommy's bed, grabbing a rickety chair from the corner as he crossed the room.

Joel thumped the chair down beside the bed and perched himself on the edge of it, elbows on his knees as he leaned forward. The anger lingered still in Joel's expression, but Tommy sensed something else, something fraught, worried. Like the stern demeanor of a parent both forceful and anxious in explaining to a child why touching an electrical socket is forbidden.

"It is _exactly_ the same, Tommy," Joel growled. He tapped his temple, where dried blood still tangled in his black hair. "Use your goddamn head. How many times Breslen said it? Infected ain't the real problem anymore. People are. And there's a helluva lot more people in here than out there."

Tommy did not immediately reply. He stared at his brother, half wanting to snap back that Joel was wrong, half knowing he was not.

"Listen," Joel continued, less angrily, in the wake of Tommy's silence. "We're doin' okay, alright? Jan and Annie, we're doin' alright with them—"

"—and Percy," Tommy muttered.

Joel ignored him. "We're makin' it work here. You just gotta get it into your head that this place still ain't like it was before. Won't ever be."

"I'm not helpin' Breslen, Joel," Tommy interjected coldly, disregarding Joel's rare attempt at negotiation.

Joel's expression instantly darkened and his brief patience started to fray. "Yes, you are," he growled.

"No, I'm not."

"You are."

"Joel—"

"You _are_, Tommy," Joel said sharply, cutting him off and jabbing a finger towards Tommy's chest. "You don't and Breslen's comin' after Annie and Jan and me. And Percy too, since you care so goddamn much."

Tommy stared angrily at his brother, lips slowly parting. He wanted to make some sharp retort, but everything that played through his head sounded either childish or naïve. Rule number one. Breslen made no idle threats.

"We're doin' it," Joel grunted, standing as he seemed to take Tommy's silence for capitulation. "This is it, little brother. Only thing you choose is livin' or dyin'. You don't get to choose how."

* * *

><p><strong>As always, thanks for reading and reviewing! I love hearing what folks take away from this story, so truly, every review is deeply appreciated. And to Cass87 in particular - talk about a fanfiction writer's dream, to work at Naughty Dog! :P There is no greater compliment for a fanfiction writer than to be told you feel like you're reading canon. Totally made my day, thank you. :)<strong>

**Tune in next time as events in Baltimore come to a head and things get bloody. :)**

**(I always feel like I'm writing the episode description for The Walking Dead whenever I hint at the next update...How vague can I possibly get? _Next week: things happen and people react!_)**


	15. Chapter 15 - The Church

Chapter 15

_December 23, 2018, Night_

Shadows danced a chaotic rhythm across the peeling white walls of the old school. Dozens of kerosene lamps, torches, and battery-powered lanterns dotted the dark gymnasium as hundreds of people crammed the vast, high-ceilinged room, filling it with constant talk, frequent shouting, and occasional cheers. The air was heavy with the smell of smoke and sweat.

Baltimore's fighting pits weren't really pits. Housed in a crumbling middle school building that had been abandoned long before the cordyceps outbreak, the pits were the zone's worst kept secret. Here, gangs, citizens, and even off-duty soldiers gathered to buy booze and other contraband, and to gamble away their few possessions on the fistfights for which the pits had originally earned their reputation.

Tommy stood, arms crossed, leaning against the wall of a low alcove that housed two doors leading to what had once been the gym's restrooms. Ranks of people stood in front of him, all huddled around a 15-foot circle defined by the crowd, watching as two men at the center circled each other, fists raised.

One man was tall and square, thickset in an immovable sort of way rather than actually fat. He was bald, with a shaggy reddish-brown beard and a crown of short hair circling the base of his head. One eye was bright red already, the skin puckered and swollen and likely to be a deep shade of purple within a few hours.

The other man was Joel. Tommy could never quite get past the vague sense of shock he always felt to see his brother in the fighting pits. Joel had always been a big guy, tall by birth and strong by trade, whether it was working on Grandpa Jim's farm as a boy or building houses as an adult. But a fighter, no. Her gentle giant, Jeanne had called him in that over-cute way she had always acted, before she'd left him and Sarah. That wasn't quite right, but it was close. Joel had a powerful temper when pushed far enough, but Tommy had only seen him resort to violence once, and that had been to punch Tommy when they were both boys. Tommy had deserved it.

Still, even having grown accustomed to seeing his brother in the fights, Tommy nevertheless felt the gnawing discomfort as he stood, arms crossed and face stony, watching Joel. Slim rations had shrunk Joel's girth, such that he was no longer muscular so much as he was lean and hard. He still moved with the unnatural quickness that had served him well on the outside, dodging in and around his opponent, or deflecting blows that would have unbalanced smaller men and following them up with a vicious set of knuckles to the side of the bald man's ribs. It was not the cool callousness of a bullet fired from afar, something Tommy had long ago ceased to find shocking. This was immediate, bare-fisted brutality, in your face, loud, and bloody.

He was a crowd favorite, this black-haired, black-bearded man who stood in only jeans and an undershirt despite the frigid December temperatures. With every blow landed, the assembled onlookers crowed with delight, as the bet-takers weaved in and out amidst the crowd, setting odds and collecting bets.

"Good night for him, huh?"

Tommy lifted his brows as a man joined him in the relative quiet of the alcove. The man was older than Tommy, though not by much, and sported short brown hair that was already graying in several unflattering patches. The man was grizzled and thin, with flush red cheeks and a long, slim nose.

"Yeah," Tommy replied coolly, sighing as he looked back at Joel.

"Course, it's usually a good night for him, isn't it?"

"Usually."

"How much you bet on him tonight then?"

"Six cards."

The other man lifted his brows at Tommy, somewhere between amusement and bored disbelief. "No faith in your brother then?"

Tommy snorted. "No more than six cards to bet."

"Ah," the man nodded knowingly. "Price of being honest. Just imagine how much richer you could be if you just robbed people for a living, like everyone else here."

"Not worth it," Tommy mumbled. He sighed, dropping his gaze and shaking his head. He absently used the toe of his boot to move around some of the years of dirt and grime that had accumulated on the floor of the old gym. Then, as if remembering who he was talking to, Tommy glanced back up at the other man.

"And what brings The Great Alex to the pits tonight?"

The man, Alex, laughed. He always seemed quick to laugh, though Tommy often suspected it was a convenient façade to brush people's suspicions aside. There were too many lines in Alex's early-aged face for him to be as carefree as he pretended to be.

"The honest company, of course," he chuckled.

Tommy was rarely in the mood to smile these days and he did not choose to do so now. Demeanor still detached, he only shrugged and looked back to the fight. Joel had just landed a blow under his opponent's chin, snapping the bald man's head back with such force that Tommy felt himself wince.

"Actually, Tommy," Alex continued, noticeably lowering his voice. "I've got some business tonight. You heard any talk recently?"

Tommy's eyes flicked back to Alex and he shook his head. "That's what I'm here for now. Catchin' up on gossip."

Alex nodded. "You remember that mastermind planner the New Weather Underground has been telling us for weeks they were bringing to Baltimore? The man they said singlehandedly planned the take-over of Cleveland?"

Tommy nodded, eyes narrowing. "Got here last week, right?"

"Yep," Alex said. "And got nabbed last night."

"What?" Tommy said, forcing false surprise into his voice. His stomach churned angrily and it was everything he could do to prevent himself from grimacing in disgust, at himself.

"One of my sources says the alias of one of this guy's entourage crossed his desk a few days ago, so best guess is that they followed one of the Weathermen back to this planner's safehouse."

"Jesus," Tommy breathed out.

Alex nodded, then shrugged. "Not that I'm too worried myself anyway. The Weathermen are detail-oriented, but they don't have the resources that we Fireflies do. This alliance would have had us operating under their command, which I never like. Besides," he laughed, "can't be a very good planner if the first thing he does is let his plans get discovered, right?"

Tommy attempted a forced smile, but did not reply.

The Firefly grew more serious. "Listen, Tommy. Got a favor to ask. FEDRA thinks they hit us bad last night. Time we hit them when they think they can relax."

Tommy shifted uncomfortably, stiffly watching the crowd as it suddenly erupted in cheers as Joel caught the bald man with a vicious left fist straight to the man's temple.

"Target is Chief Commander Merringer," Alex continued.

That got Tommy's attention. His expression remained cool and detached, but his eyes widened slightly as he glanced back at Alex. He regarded the Firefly for a second.

"You're insane," he finally said.

Alex smiled, but the expression was humorless. "Very probably."

"How?" Tommy asked.

"Once a week, Merringer holds a staff meeting with all his top brass. Status update on zone comings and goings, so on and so forth. It's held in the ground floor conference room in Building 3 at the South Gate One complex. One well-placed bomb could take out the whole building. Unfortunately, we don't have enough C4 to make a bomb big enough for that. But," he said, grinning, "we do have the lead bits you and Joel have been skimming off the top of your buckets for the past few weeks. We can still make a small bomb and hopefully pack enough shrapnel into Merringer and his cronies to have the same effect as a big bomb."

Tommy dropped his gaze, maintaining his stony demeanor while he inwardly raged at himself for what he knew was about to ask. What he knew he was expected to ask.

"You're gonna have a helluva time gettin' a bomb of any size anywhere near the man," he muttered, looking sidelong at Alex, feigning curiosity. "You thought about that?"

Alex nodded, serious. "That's where you come in. I need a truck. A big one, military grade. Tough enough to bust through the chain link gate they've got set up at the entrance to the compound. Tough enough to drive into the side of the building."

"You serious?" Tommy snorted. "Anyone drivin' it ain't walkin' away. Bomb would rip 'em apart, if smashin' into a brick wall didn't do the job."

"I've got a volunteer," Alex replied quietly, all humor gone.

Tommy's lips parted and he looked away, just as the crowd burst into gleeful applause. Through the horde of onlookers, Tommy could see Joel had won the bout. The bald man lay unconscious on the ground a few feet from Joel, while Joel himself was wiping his sweaty brow with a rag, his knuckles red and raw. People swarmed around him, jostling him and slapping his back with drunken gratitude for making good on their bets.

Tommy remained in the alcove, arms still crossed. He cleared his throat. "What do you need?" he mumbled.

Alex nodded appreciatively. "One of those big military flatbeds gravediggers use to load bodies."

"They don't let tens drive 'em. It's always a soldier behind the wheel."

"Do you know where the keys are, at least? Any way you could get your hands on a set?"

Tommy hesitated, then slowly nodded.

The Firefly drew a deep breath and sighed long and slow. His expression was hopeful, but cautious too. "It's a lot to ask, Tommy," he said. "We're not involving any of the gangs, or any of the other underground groups. Just a few choice locals like you and Joel. But you're not a Firefly and this is a lot to ask. You don't want to be a part of this, you just say."

Again, the sickening disgust roiled in the pit of Tommy's stomach. He wanted no part of it, none at all. But both Joel and Breslen would expect him to say yes, to lure this man whom Tommy falsely called friend into a trap. Tommy swallowed, then nodded.

"No, I'll do it," he muttered, not looking at Alex.

The crowd around Joel was breaking up, headed to join the audiences watching other fights taking place throughout the large gymnasium. Joel was weaving through the departing onlookers, headed for Tommy and Alex as he pulled on a long-sleeved check shirt over his sweaty undershirt.

"You're a good man, Tommy," Alex said earnestly, nodding. "Just drop the keys beside the steps going into that mobile home you tens use for keeping supplies. Nobody'll notice them there and I'll have someone pick them up later. We'll take back this place eventually, make it a real home for the people of Baltimore." He followed Tommy's gaze, then grinned. "Joel! Nice fighting, buddy."

Alex slapped the side of Joel's arm as he joined them, but Joel only lifted his brows, ignoring the friendly gesture.

"Listen," the Firefly continued. "Business calls. I'll let Tommy fill you in. You boys have a good night now." Grinning, he nodded to them both and disappeared into the crowd.

Joel was bleeding from a cut beside his eye, but otherwise appeared to have come out of his fight none the worse for wear. He adjusted the collar on the dark check shirt and started buttoning it up as he looked to Tommy.

"What'd he want?"

Tommy pressed his lips together, fighting the guilt that always scratched at the back of his throat.

"That Weatherman from Cleveland?" he muttered, stooping to retrieve a faded Carhartt jacket from the ground behind him, which he handed to Joel. "FEDRA picked him up last night."

Joel's expression was unreadable, but he lowered his voice. "On our information?"

Cynicism crept across Tommy's face. "Well, I doubt Breslen just wanted that list of names to put under his pillow at night. So yeah, probably on our information, Joel."

The lines around Joel's mouth tightened. "Stop poutin' about it, Tommy. We're just doin' what we gotta. Ain't personal."

"Try tellin' that to the Weatherman they've probably put a bullet into by now."

Joel did not deign to answer that comment, but he returned Tommy's scowl and pulled on his jacket. "You find out yet why the Fireflies have had us skimmin' lead off the top of our buckets the last month?"

Tommy did not immediately answer. He glared at his brother as Joel zipped up the old Carhartt jacket, either oblivious or unsympathetic to the reality of what it cost others whenever they provided information to Breslen.

But Tommy's silence and glare seemed to provoke Joel. "Jesus, Tommy," he muttered angrily. "Stop bein' so goddamn pissy. We got an excuse to be here 'cause I'm fightin', but that don't do a damn bit of good if you ain't usin' that time to get what Breslen wants." He impatiently repeated himself. "Did you find out what the Fireflies want with the lead?"

"No," Tommy growled sharply, without thinking. The reply had been prompted by Joel's infuriatingly condescending tone, but Tommy suddenly found himself making a snap decision, more to spite his brother than anything else.

"Alex just came to say about the Weatherman. He wouldn't say anythin' else."

Joel rolled his eyes and snorted, as if unsurprised by Tommy's shortcomings.

"Fine," he grunted unhappily, turning on his heel. "But _you_ get to tell Breslen why we still ain't figured out why we been givin' potential weapons to these goddamn rebels."

Without another word, he put his back to Tommy and angrily started pushing his way towards the exit.

* * *

><p><em>December 24, 2014, Early Evening<em>

It was already dark by the time Baltimore's gravedigging crews retired for the night, lining up patiently with their lead buckets in hand as the soldiers at South Gate One scanned them in one by one. Frost was already glistening silver across the muddy ground and the ice that had never quite melted from the tops of puddles was thickening up again as the temperatures dropped.

Yet despite the cold, the atmosphere was almost jovial. Christmas brought no change in the rations FEDRA meted out, but little luxuries that people had been quietly hiding away were brought out. Chocolate bars, packets of apple cider, evergreen-scented candles, half-empty bottles of whiskey and port, tattered copies of classic books like A Christmas Carol. Non-essential job assignments would be cancelled tomorrow, and essential job assignments – like gravedigging – would start two hours later than normal.

Small gestures, but enough to raise the moods of most.

Not Tommy though. Both he and Joel scanned in negative and were waved through the gate, where they started towards the mobile home that served as the gravediggers' supply depot. Tommy kept glancing at his brother, as if expecting Joel at any moment to reveal that he somehow knew the true substance of the conversation that had taken place between Tommy and Alex. But that was Tommy's guilt talking.

Breslen was waiting for the two brothers when they reached the mobile home. He stood out front in a heavy camouflaged jacket with his arms crossed, a balaclava and cloth cap keeping his head warm as his breath fogged in front of him. The light of several lanterns hanging beside the mobile home's door flickering across his scarlet red cheeks.

"You talk to him," Tommy muttered as they neared Breslen. "I'm not in the mood tonight." He held out a hand to Joel, who shrugged and handed over the bucket of lead he carried, as well as the gas mask, gloves, and knife they were issued daily before heading outside the walls.

Breslen straightened as they approached and nodded curtly to both, his expression losing just a touch of its usual sourness. "Tommy, Joel," he grunted.

"Colonel," Tommy grunted back, dipping his head forward, but then heading up the steps to the mobile home's door. Joel and Breslen turned and started walking around the side of the mobile home, where Joel could pass on to the colonel their daily report on Baltimore's underground movement, away from unwanted ears. Breslen was not likely to be pleased. They – or at least Joel – had precious little information to give him tonight.

A pang of guilt stabbed at Tommy's stomach, but it was nothing compared to the oppressive guilt that had settled over him after nearly a year as Breslen's informer.

Opening the mobile home door, Tommy stepped into the relative warmth of a dimly lit room with a long wooden counter. Boxes and buckets were stacked against the far wall, where a backdoor led to a roofed courtyard Tommy knew to be filled with all manner of oddments: spare knives and shovels, lead buckets soaking to clean the lead of blood and grime, canisters of lighter fluid, unused gas masks, cleaned rubber gloves hanging to dry.

A middle-aged man with black hair and a thin beard stood behind the counter cleaning the sweat and dust off the inside of a gas mask. He wore FEDRA blue with a lieutenant's bar on the collar and _PENOZA_ printed above his left breast pocket. He gave a tired smile as he caught sight of Tommy coming through the door.

"Hey Tommy," Penoza said, setting the mask aside and clearing the counter of debris.

"Hey Lenny," Tommy nodded. His eyes flickered to the pegboard beside the counter, where numbered keys hung neatly from several dozen hooks, but the next moment, Tommy was returning Penoza's weary smile as he swung the lead bucket he carried up onto the counter.

Penoza leaned forward to look into the bucket, then lifted his dark brows at Tommy. "Not that many again, huh? Thought I've been hearing the guns less and less."

"It's the cold," Tommy said, shrugging. "Keeps more of 'em from wanderin' out this way. Fine by me." He grinned.

"Sure enough," the supply officer chuckled, grabbing the lead bucket and putting it behind the counter.

Next Tommy placed his and Joel's masks and knives on the counter, and lay beside them two sets of rubber gloves, both turned inside out to prevent their outsides from touching anything. Penoza took each and deposited them in various boxes against the far wall, each labeled _Masks_, _Knives_, and _Gloves_.

Swallowing lightly, Tommy finally fished out of his jacket pocket the metal lighter that gravediggers were issued to light the bodies they burned every day. It was one of the few perks of the job that they were not required to turn these lighters in at the end of the day, but could keep them for personal use; no small thing when matches could sometimes be difficult to come by.

"Could you refill that while you're at it, Lenny?" Tommy said, keeping his tone casual and tired. "Damn thing kept flickerin' out on me today."

Of course, it had not helped that Tommy had opened the lighter up at the end of the day and drained it of excess lighter fluid.

"Sure thing," Penoza nodded wearily. He grabbed the lighter and turned towards the backdoor behind the counter, as Tommy knew he would. Opening the door, Penoza disappeared into the courtyard outside, where the canisters of lighter fluid were stored.

Pulse suddenly quickening, Tommy's eyes flashed first to the front door of the mobile home, then to the pegboard with its rows of hanging keys. He licked his lips, reached out, and unhooked a set of keys with a tag reading _Truck 206._ Swallowing, Tommy pocketed the keys and sought to arrange his face back into an expression of weary impassivity again.

All of the gravedigging trucks were already in for the night. Penoza would have no reason to look at the board again tonight. No reason to notice a set of keys missing.

At least that was what Tommy desperately hoped.

A minute later, the supply officer stomped back in from the cold outside and closed the door behind him.

"There you go," he said, passing the lighter back to Tommy.

"Thanks," Tommy returned, nodding and holding the lighter up in a show of appreciation. He turned to leave.

"Hey Tommy," Penoza said, causing Tommy's stomach to clench as he looked back towards the counter. "Merry Christmas, man."

Tommy relaxed. "You too, Lenny," he smiled, then headed for the door.

Outside, he paused at the top of the steps and quickly dropped the truck keys over the side of the railing, wincing at the slight tinkling sound they made as they hit the dark ground beneath. But no one seemed to have noticed and he chose not to linger any longer.

Joel and Breslen were returning to the front of the mobile home just as Tommy was coming down the steps. As Tommy had suspected, Breslen looked less than pleased. The bags beneath the colonel's eyes bunched as he squinted angrily in the half light of the mobile home's lanterns.

"Been slackin', Tommy?" Breslen growled low.

Tommy's eyes darted to Joel, who cleared his throat.

"I said we're workin' on it," Joel interjected on Tommy's behalf. "Just nothin' tonight. Like I said, folks are just playin' it close after you picked up that Weatherman."

But Breslen ignored Joel, instead jabbing a finger into Tommy's chest. "You told me you'd find out what the Fireflies wanted with that fuckin' lead. You convinced me to let you hand it over to them. And still you two don't know what they're usin' it for."

"Ain't for lack of tryin', Colonel," Tommy muttered, glancing at Joel again.

"Try harder," Breslen grunted. "You've got a charming personality somewhere in there, Tommy. _Charm harder_."

Digging his hands angrily into his jacket pockets, the colonel shot both brothers a glare and pushed past them, disappearing in the direction of the Chief Commander's South Gate One compound.

Joel's expression was tired and wary as he shook his head at Tommy and sighed heavily.

* * *

><p>"When?"<p>

"Less'n an hour ago."

"Right through the goddamn gate?"

"Yeah! You believe that? Would've gone through the fuckin' side of the building if that other truck hadn't T-boned it first."

"But the bomb still went off?"

"Triggered on impact. Fuckin' shrapnel everywhere. Tore up half the people standin' in the compound."

"Holy shit."

The soot-blackened faces of a dozen gravediggers flickered in the light of the big drum fire they had crackling at the center of their circle. Minutes ago, they had all been slouched comfortably in the cheap lawn chairs that surrounded the rusting oil drum, exchanging small talk with the warm, lazy drowsiness that had been induced by the bottle of Jim Beam whiskey they were passing around.

But now, all sat on the edges of their chairs, their eyes wide. The shock was real, but their expressions had the over-exaggerated alarm of the semi-drunk. All were focused on a sandy-haired young man who had come jogging into their midst just minutes before with the news that had abruptly cut short their modest Christmas Eve festivities.

"So they didn't actually get Merringer, though?" somebody asked.

The sandy-haired man shook his head. "Not even close. Soon as some of soldiers saw that truck crashin' through the compound gate, somebody fired up one of those big transport trucks they always got parked in there. Slammed right into the side of the bastards."

"Thank God. What the fuck is goin' on in this zone anymore? Those rebel assholes are stirrin' up all kinds of shit these days. Wish they'd just leave Baltimore alone."

Tommy was rubbing at a soot stain on the knee of his pants leg. His fingers absently picked at the stain, barely registering what he was doing as he listened to the conversation around him. On either side of him, he knew Joel and Annie were staring up at their news-bearer with clear interest, but Tommy could not bring himself to lift his gaze. His body felt warm from the fire and the whiskey, but an icy fist was clenched around his chest.

A young woman named Dore on the far side of the circle abruptly stood, bringing Tommy's eyes up as he caught sight of the movement.

"No offense, folks," Dore said, a worried edge in her voice. "But I think I'll turn in. No way military's gonna let this slide. Best not to be one of the ones caught out after curfew tonight."

A murmur of agreement rippled through the gathered gravediggers and others began standing, their former festiveness quickly forgotten. Tommy felt Joel nudge him.

"C'mon," Joel muttered. "Let's get outta here." He waved to Annie as well as he stood.

Annie and Tommy followed suit without comment, abandoning their chairs as they retreated into the darkness beyond the light of the drum fire.

The shabby ensembles of chairs and tarp tents had been erected in an alleyway between two lines of houses, set back from the street so as to avoid unwanted attention and to cut down on some of the biting wind that occasionally swept through the funnels created by the unbroken fronts of the row houses. Joel stayed close to the brick buildings that fronted one side of the street. Rexmere was only a few blocks away, but the row houses in this area of the zone afforded precious little cover.

"What do you make of that?" Annie said quietly as they walked.

Joel glanced at Tommy, but shook his head. "Dunno," he rumbled.

They had not told Annie of their arrangement with Breslen. Tommy suspected she knew something had been up for the past year, but she had never pressed the issue. She and Joel had broken it off months ago – Annie had ended it, really – and although they both still clearly counted on the other having their back, Annie had less patience these days for Joel's moods. More than three years she had known Tommy and Joel and she knew when they were willing to talk and when they weren't.

So as far as she and Jan were concerned, Breslen had beaten the two brothers for the same reason that the gangs believed Breslen had beaten them: in an effort to crack down on the illegal trade between gravediggers and the gangs.

The three of them walked in silence for a time, their hands in their pockets and jacket collars turned up against the cold. Tommy tried to turn his thoughts away from the botched attack that he had helped make possible, away from the fact that he had put both himself and Joel at risk by lying to his brother.

It had to be near midnight. Jan had promised something special for dinner tomorrow. For Percy, she had even managed to trade for a small, unopened box of Legos that someone had found in an abandoned toy shop in Block F. It would be a good day. Tommy could forget for a while about Breslen, about gangs, about resistance fighters. Just for a day.

The roar of an engine brought Joel, Annie, and Tommy to a halt. Suddenly tense, they began casting about for a place to hide, but no one kept their doors open this time of night and the only meager cover in a solid line of row houses were the small stoops leading up to each front door. They dove for the nearest stoop, counting on the darkness to cloak them.

An olive green military transport truck rumbled into view around a corner to their right, its headlights on. But it was moving slow and Tommy realized there were soldiers walking on either side of it, silhouetted by the headlights and easy to pinpoint by the powerful flashlights they were sweeping along the sides of the street.

Tommy heard Joel and Annie sigh beside him as all three realized the same thing: they would be spotted.

A few seconds later, their expectations came true. Tommy squinted and held up a hand as a flashlight beam caught him full in the face.

"Here we go – hold up!" somebody shouted above the roar of the engine.

The truck rolled to a stop and more flashlights began pointing in their direction. With nowhere to run, the three of them slowly stood with annoyed, resigned expressions, hands held above their heads.

Tommy heard the passenger door of the truck open, then slam shut. Someone crossed in front of the headlights, coming towards them.

"Evening, boys," Colonel Breslen growled

There was not a hint of cordiality in his greeting.

Breslen stepped in front of several of the lights shining their direction and Tommy could see now that the colonel's Christmas Eve had likely been less than pleasant. He no longer wore the balaclava or cloth cap they had seen him in hours ago, but his cheeks and bald head were covered with a thin, smoky black sheen, as if he had been working near a fire for some time. Dark smudges – of blood or smoke, Tommy could not tell – stained the front of his military fatigues.

With a sinking feeling, Tommy was suddenly quite sure Breslen had been in the vicinity of the Chief Commander's compound at the time of the Firefly attack.

"Get in the truck," Breslen said.

Tommy and Joel glanced at each other, drawing shaky breaths. Slowly, their hands still above their heads, they started shuffling towards the rear of the rumbling truck. Annie made as if to fall into step behind them.

"Not you, Annie," Breslen growled impatiently. "You go home."

"Colonel—" she started to say.

"Shut up. Go home, Annie. Don't ask questions."

Several soldiers levelled assault rifles at her and she stopped, backing up against the brick wall behind her again. Tommy glanced back at her and saw fear in her face as she watched the two brothers go.

She probably thought she might never see them again.

As Tommy turned away, he realized she might well be right.

* * *

><p>As the church door slammed open, the pair of urchins who had been huddled at the far end of the long building sprang to attention, backing up against the abandoned altar with wide eyes. The air had the bitter-sweet aroma of some drug being cooked that should likely never have been cooked.<p>

"Get out."

The urchins visibly shook as half a dozen flashlight beams swept over them and the stomp of military boots filled the vacant church. Breslen's impatient command snapped them out of their shock and they instantly spun around, away from the squad of soldiers entering the building, and fled down a dark hallway that likely led to a backdoor. The pot of whatever foul concoction they had been cooking remained abandoned atop a small propane stove at the base of the altar.

Breslen pushed Tommy and Joel ahead of him, unceremoniously using the barrel of his pistol to shove them towards the front of the church. The half dozen soldiers that accompanied them began to spread casually to the sides of the building, along the outside of the dark pews that lined either side of the middle walkway up which the two brothers were being forced. The interior of the vacant building was frosty and murky dark, lit only by the sporadic beams of light each of the soldiers carried. A musty smell hung over even the stench of the drug the urchins had been cooking.

"How many times have I said it?" Breslen growled behind them as they walked. He seemed to be talking more to himself than to either Tommy or Joel. "This is it. There is _nothing_ else out there. These fuckin' militias come in thinkin' they can make the world a better place, thinkin' they got it all figured out, they can do a better job. Every goddamn coup in the history of the world starts that way and every goddamn dictator starts with a coup."

He rammed the barrel of his pistol against Tommy's back, causing Tommy to wince and twitch with the expectation of it going off. "You fuckin' idiots," Breslen continued. "You _fuckin'_ idiots. You weren't so caught up in your high and mighty ideas, you might've realized what a good thing you had goin' for you."

"Colonel—" Tommy started to say, hands still raised above his head.

"Shut up," Breslen snapped. "I'm so goddamn tired of hearin' you talk, Tommy. I should've shot you the first day you pulled that fuckin' trigger. You think I'm stupid? You think Penoza couldn't figure out who had the opportunity to grab those keys when 206 came crashin' into the Commander's compound?"

Tommy saw Joel stumble a pace as Breslen next rammed the pistol into Joel's back. They were near the front of the church and started to slow as they looked down at the still simmering pot of whatever substance the urchins had been cooking. Tommy swallowed around short, shallow breaths, bracing for whatever reason Breslen had in bringing them to this place.

The church was in a non-residential area of the zone, far from unwanted attention. Ideal for a couple of quiet executions.

"And now my ass is on the line," the colonel growled. "Who you think they'll come cryin' to when they start pullin' lead shrapnel out of those kids on the compound gate you tore up?"

They came to a stop before the altar. The smell of the substance in the cooking pot stung Tommy's nostrils as he glanced from side to side, noting the dark shadows of the soldiers lining the outer walls of the church, each with their boots illuminated by the flashlights they held loosely pointing at the floor.

Behind them, Tommy heard Breslen come to a stop as well. Silence enveloped the dark interior for several seconds as Tommy felt himself hunching forward, expecting at any moment to hear the pull of the hammer on the pistol being held at his back. Yet rather than the rattle of the gun, Tommy heard instead a pinched sigh behind him.

Frowning, Tommy turned. For just a second, he caught a glimpse of Breslen with his head down, his features partially obscured by the darkness, but stance almost pensive. But a second later, Breslen caught sight of Tommy looking at him and his expression snapped back to the familiar glare.

"Get on your fuckin' knees," he muttered, shoving Tommy to force him to turn towards the altar again.

Tommy swallowed and looked sidelong at his brother with an expression half apprehensive, half apologetic. But Joel's own expression was cold and angry, and when he returned Tommy's glance, there was almost a simmering resolve in his face. Tommy's apprehension gave way to confusion.

There was no time, however, to say anything to Joel. Breslen jammed the barrel of his pistol into Tommy's back again, prompting Tommy to sink slowly to his knees. He raised his hands above his head as a cold numbness stole over him.

"I said on your fuckin' knees, Joel," the colonel growled.

Yet Joel didn't move. He stood staring straight ahead, head tipped slightly as if looking at the altar, arms at his side. Breslen made an impatient sound, but did not ask again. Instead, he stepped forward and once more prodded Joel with the end of the pistol.

Without warning, Joel's right elbow snapped back, catching Breslen's extended arm under the wrist and forcing the colonel's hand upward. In the same instant, Joel ducked forward. Breslen gave a surprised grunt and the pistol fired, tearing a bullet into the darkness where Joel had been standing upright a moment before. With the ring of the gunshot still hanging in the air, Joel spun, slamming his arm down on Breslen's hand and then quickly driving a closed fist into the side of Breslen's head. The pistol clattered to the church floor.

All of this happened in the space of a desperate breath. Both Breslen and Joel were still standing and Tommy heard the rattle of heavy rifles just as six beams of light hit the two struggling men.

"Joel! Down!" Tommy cried out as he himself dropped to the floor.

Breslen was hunched over from the blow to his head, but Joel suddenly grabbed the older man and crashed to the floor with him, just as the soldiers lining the walls of the church were bringing their assault rifles to bear on them. A hail of shouting erupted and Tommy felt the floor shake with military boots suddenly in motion.

Tommy glanced behind him to see Joel and Breslen struggling on the floor. Flashlight beams were flashing across the tops of the pews above them and Tommy could hear the soldiers racing towards Breslen. Desperately, Tommy cast about for the pistol that Breslen had dropped, but could see nothing in the darkness. Instead, Tommy's eyes locked on the still gently simmering propane stove and pot of whatever illegal drug the urchins had been cooking.

Tommy dove forward, grabbed the handle of the pot, and twisted so that he was back on his knees and able to see over the tops of the pews. The shadow of the soldier nearest him whipped around and suddenly a flashlight was glaring straight into Tommy's eyes. Without thinking, Tommy hurled the pot in the soldier's direction and was rewarded a second later by a cry of surprise as the hot pot and its unknown concoction caught the soldier full in the face. The flashlight the soldier had been holding dropped to the floor.

A shout behind him brought Tommy's attention back around to Joel. Breslen was crouched on his hands and knees behind Joel, but looked to have been briefly incapacitated because Joel was not focusing on him. Instead, Joel had thrown his weight against the end of one long pew and was growling as the heavy wooden bench scrapped suddenly across the floor and slammed into another soldier standing against the wall, effectively pinning him there.

Yet in the next instant, Tommy saw Breslen straighten and shake his head. In the same moment, Tommy caught a glint of metal beneath the pew nearest him. Breslen's gun. Diving, Tommy's fingers closed around the pistol just as he saw Breslen lunge for Joel, who had only just released the pew he had been pushing across the floor. Breslen grabbed Joel from behind, an arm wrapping around Joel's neck as both men began flailing on the ground.

Every instinct that had laid dormant for a year and a half in the safety of the Baltimore zone came roaring back to life now. Tommy snapped the pistol up and fired.

Breslen's shoulder jerked back, tearing away his grip from Joel, who instantly hit the ground. Tommy fired again. The colonel tumbled backwards.

But the danger was far from over. The double discharge of the pistol seemed to act as a trigger as automatic rifle fire suddenly erupted inside the church. Tommy dropped to the floorboards again and rolled beneath a nearby pew as splinters of wood exploded above his head. A flashlight beam danced chaotically across the ground beside him and Tommy risked a glance out from his cover to see the shadow of a soldier running towards him.

He raised the pistol and fired twice again. The soldier staggered and collapsed to the ground.

Rolling out from under the pew, Tommy scrambled on his stomach to the fallen soldier's side and pried the dead man's assault rifle from his grasp. Behind him, Tommy heard the deafening roar of yet more gunfire, along with the sharp crack and dull thud of bullets striking wood, brick, and glass. Muzzle fire lit the room.

Vaguely, Tommy was aware of a flurry of dark figures darting in and out of cover, of flashlight beams skating across the walls, as gun smoke and splinters filled the air. He had no idea where Joel was anymore. The church had become a nightmare of chaos where instinct alone was all that mattered.

Tommy came to his knees and risked a glance over the top of the pew he crouched behind. With a jolt, he saw the dark outline of a soldier mere feet from him. Tommy swung his new-found assault rifle up and pulled the trigger. The soldier flew backwards until he struck the wall behind him, where he slid limply to the ground.

A sudden shout to Tommy's right instantly caused him to drop to his knees again, but rather than the gunfire he had expected to follow the shout, Tommy instead felt the floorboards shake as someone started charging up the middle aisle. Again, Tommy brought the assault rifle up to bear, but as his soon-to-be assailant rounded the end of the pew nearest Tommy, Tommy once again found himself blinded by the glare of a flashlight full in his face. He scrunched his eyes without thinking.

The next second, something long and heavy with a hard edge slammed into the left side of Tommy's face. Pain exploded across his cheek, particularly around his left eye. The blow snapped Tommy's head back and burst a blanket of stars across his vision. He managed to keep from falling backwards, but realized he was no longer holding the assault rifle. Unable to see well enough to determine where he had dropped it, Tommy instead heaved to his feet and blindly charged in the direction of the soldier who struck him.

Fortunately, rather than meeting empty air, Tommy slammed against what was clearly a person. He wrapped his arms around his attacker as the force of his charge carried them both backwards to slam against the church altar. Blinking rapidly, Tommy's vision cleared enough in his right eye for him to make out that the soldier was wielding a long plank of wood, but seemed to have been deprived of any other weapon.

"Tommy!"

Although the collision with the altar had forced the breath out of Tommy's lungs and briefly stunned his attacker, Joel's voice whipped Tommy's head around again, just in time to see yet another soldier at the far end of the center aisle raising a rifle in Tommy's direction. Without pausing, Tommy grabbed the front jacket of the man he had pinned against the altar and spun the man around as a shield between Tommy and the soldier at the far end of the church, just as gunfire split the air again.

Tommy felt the man he held jerk violently as the bullets intended for Tommy struck this unfortunate soldier instead. Looking beyond, Tommy glimpsed the soldier at the other end of the church, rifle still raised but a look of horror spreading across his face as recognition dawned that he had just shot his own comrade in arms. At just that moment, Joel's shadow emerged from the shadows to the soldier's side, a pistol in hand, aimed straight at the soldier's head.

One ringing shot and the soldier dropped to the ground. In an instant, silence blanketed the church once again.

Tommy dropped the weight of the dead man he held, ignoring the jarring clatter as the soldier hit the ground at Tommy's feet. As Tommy reached behind to steady himself against the altar, he winced suddenly in pain. He glanced down to see a dark stain spreading across the outside of his left arm. Adrenaline was keeping the pain temporarily at bay, but apparently his human shield had not kept him entirely unscathed. Tommy attempted to ignore it for the time being.

Breathing heavily and nerves still ready to leap into action at a second's notice, Tommy glanced up as Joel came jogging up the center aisle, a flashlight in hand.

"Tommy! Tommy! Oh Christ," Joel panted as he neared Tommy. "Jesus, your face. Can you see? Tommy, can you see me?"

Tommy nodded quickly. "In my right eye. I can still see out the right."

Joel put a hand on Tommy's chest and held the flashlight to his brother's face. Apparently, the blow to Tommy's face looked no better than it felt. He could see Joel was nursing a few cuts and bruises of his own, but far and away the worst of it was a long, deep gash across the inside of Joel's right arm. Joel's hand and the lower portion of his shirt sleeve were sopping wet and stained dark.

"C'mon, we gotta go," Joel breathed out with sudden urgency as if satisfied that Tommy could at least see well enough to escape the church. "Grab whatever you can. We gotta get outta here. Now."

Fortunately, the adrenaline coursing through Tommy had not yet subsided to the shake and exhaustion of a drained body. Wiping a hand across his mouth, Tommy pushed away from the altar and moved quickly. He stooped and picked up a fallen flashlight from the floor. He also retrieved Breslen's gun from beneath the pew where he had dropped it. One of the dead soldiers carried several magazines of the .40 cartridges that fit the pistol, so Tommy grabbed those as well.

Yet as he started down the center aisle towards where Joel stood waiting near the front door, Tommy noticed movement on the ground before him and whipped both pistol and flashlight around to investigate.

It was Breslen. A dark red stain blotched the chest and shoulder of his uniform, but the colonel was still alive, if not for long. He had managed to prop his head up against a pew behind him and lay now staring up at Tommy, the familiar glare twisting his features. Only now, in addition to the smoky sheen that coated his cheeks and the bags beneath his eyes, flecks of blood were also scattered across the man's face.

"Pleased…with yourself?" Breslen choked out, coughing and grimacing despite the sneer he was shooting Tommy.

Tommy said nothing. Ignoring the throb starting to spread hot through his wounded arm, he slowly lowered himself, crouching above Breslen and staring at the man through his one good eye.

Breslen coughed again. He shook his head and looked up at the ceiling. "You don't get it…Fuckin' idiot…You'll die…just like the rest of us...Military or militia...or why ever you fight...it don't matter."

Tommy's brow creased and he frowned as he stared at the colonel. "Why do any of it then?" he asked abruptly, vaguely incredulous.

Suddenly, Tommy realized he knew nothing about this man whom he hated so much, who had dogged his every footstep for the past year and a half, who now lay dying at his feet. "If you're so goddamn angry at the world, why bother tryin' to make any of this work?"

Breslen's face twisted. "Because I'm too goddamn stubborn to die," he growled, just as a particularly harsh cough brought blood to his lips, where it rolled down into his gray goatee.

Tommy's face hardened and he glanced up at Joel, who was silently watching the exchange with an expression like iron. Tommy shook his head at Breslen, sneering as he stood.

"So are we," he said quietly.

As Tommy stepped over Breslen, the colonel began coughing, wet and uncontrolled. Death was coming swift and unforgiving, robbing the bitter old man of even a parting shot at the two brothers. Yet as Tommy slowly walked towards the church door and listened to the bloody gasps grip the dying man behind him, he realized something.

He glanced down at the dark stain soaking his arm. Breslen had made good on his word after all. The colonel had said, the next time Tommy pulled the trigger, Joel would be digging lead out of him. So it was. And that made sense.

Breslen made no idle threats.

* * *

><p><strong>Lookee there, I actually managed to crank out nearly 8,000 words in little more than a week! And this during a week that included a search and rescue training and several very long work days. You're all welcome. ;) Thank you for reading and reviews are always appreciated!<br>**

**For those like me who are shamelessly obsessed with TLOU details, yes indeed I will confirm that this last scene is the origin of both the prominent scar on Tommy's left cheek as well as the scar on the inside of Joel's right arm. How about that. :)**

**Tune in next time as Joel and Tommy deal with the fallout from the church.**


	16. Chapter 16 - O Holy Night

**Apologies, all, for my lengthy delay in updating this go-round! At least, it was a pretty substantial delay for me, given that I usually only take a week or two to update. For various work and school reasons, November is usually my busiest month of the year, but added to that were a few unexpected events that had me busy on the weekends, which is normally when I get a lot of writing done. So apologies, but hopefully it will be some reassurance that I don't expect December to anywhere NEAR as hectic. Should be back to my one or two week update routine. Enjoy! **

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 16<span>

_December 25, 2018, Morning_

By the time Tommy woke, the light coming through the high, narrow basement windows was cold and gray. The window panes themselves were patterned with thick frost and had several inches of solid white at their base. It had snowed overnight.

Tommy felt as if his limbs had frozen in place. His breath fogged dense and white in front of him and he felt the uncontrollable shiver begin to rattle through him almost as soon as he started to drift back into consciousness. Although he sat with his back against a wall, seated atop one thick wool coat with a second thrown over him, nothing felt warm. He could barely move his head and his feet felt like frozen blocks of ice.

When he finally did move, it brought only a grunt and a grimace and he immediately stilled again. Every hint of movement sent a throbbing cry of agony through his wounded shoulder, and when he tried to clench his teeth against the pain, shockwaves rocketed through the left side of his broken face in protest.

Instantly, Tommy was once again awake and exhausted. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the cinderblock wall behind him, silently replaying the previous night's events for the hundredth time. The tremble in his breath quickened.

At the sound of movement in front of him, Tommy's eyes snapped open, but it was only Joel. He was leaned against the side of an old-fashioned wooden clothes rack, his eyes closed and lips barely parted as some dream or nightmare caused him to twitch lightly in his sleep. Tommy was struck by how haggard his brother looked in the dim gray light of the basement.

Glancing down, Tommy stared for a second at the pile of ripped and bloody clothing beside him, which Joel had used last night to stem the blood seeping from the bullet-wound in Tommy's shoulder. The bullet itself, a big military-grade slug, lay on the bare cement floor beside the rags, bloody red.

Tommy coughed, then groaned from the pain that split across his left cheek and brow.

Immediately, Joel's twitching stopped and his eyes flicked open, bleary but alert. He relaxed when he straightened and saw only Tommy sitting across from him.

"How you feelin'?" he said, voice stiff and gravelly from the cold.

"Like I've been shot," Tommy muttered.

A ghost of smile flickered across Joel's face. "Sucks, don't it?"

Tommy could not smile without grimacing, but he shot his brother a wry look and shook his head, lightly snorting.

Joel cleared his throat and leaned forward stiffly, letting the wool coat he had used as a blanket fall from his shoulders. Beneath, he still wore his familiar Carhartt jacket, but even in the gray half-light of the basement, the deep reddish-brown stain that had soaked the lower half of the right sleeve was a stark contrast against the light brown of the rest of the jacket. A ragged rip flapped around the center of the stained sleeve and, through the frayed edges of the fabric, Tommy could see the thick makeshift bandages that Joel had wrapped around the gash in his arm.

"How's your arm?" Tommy asked.

Joel shrugged and shook his head, brushing the question aside.

Grunting, he heaved to his feet and shuffled towards Tommy, flicking on a flashlight as he knelt before his brother. Joel held his right arm against his stomach, instead using his left hand to gently check the strips of ripped clothing they had used as bandages to wrap Tommy's shoulder the night before. The basement they were in had once belonged to a dry cleaning store operated on the floor above; they had found it littered with a dusty collection of old coats, dresses, and uniforms, making crude bandages mercifully easy to come by.

Apparently satisfied that Tommy had not bled through the coverings, Joel next leaned back and held the flashlight up to his brother's face. Tommy instinctively attempted to squint, then winced as the movement sent pain shooting through the left side of his face again.

"Try not to move," Joel said, tone halfway apologetic.

He was surprisingly gentle as he lightly prodded the bones around Tommy's cheek and eye socket, where the plank of wood had struck. Yet even with Joel's light fingertips, every touch sent fire through Tommy's face, causing him to instinctively cringe away.

"Fuck," he breathed out through thin lips, fighting to keep the bones of his face from moving too much. "Can't you just leave it, Joel?"

"I think it broke somethin', Tommy."

"I know," Tommy murmured. He could feel the dried blood that had soaked into his beard, tugging at the hairs. "But you're settin' my fuckin' eye on fire."

Joel shifted. He held the flashlight up higher, shining it towards Tommy's left eye.

"Can you see anythin' yet?"

Deliberately keeping his breathing deep and slow, Tommy let his right arm slip out from under the wool coat that still covered him. Staring straight ahead, he placed a hand over his good eye and blinked several times.

"Yeah," he said after a moment. "It's blurry as hell and I can't see much on the sides, but it's better than last night."

Joel breathed a sigh of relief and nodded. "Good. You still got blood shot through your whole eye. Might not be permanent if it's gettin' better."

Tommy nodded stiffly.

Joel continued staring at Tommy's face for a second, a troubled look pinching the lines around his mouth and eyes. Suddenly he leaned forward again, lightly pressing the back of his hand against Tommy's brow.

Tommy jerked away. "What the hell, Joel?"

"Are you cold?" Joel asked.

Tommy cocked his head as if his brother could not have asked a stupider question. "Really?"

"I mean it," Joel pressed, ignoring Tommy's sarcasm. "Not just cold 'cause it's cold in here. You feel like you're burnin' up, Tommy. Like you got a fever or somethin'. You gettin' chills or anythin' like that?"

"Well, you ain't exactly got the warmest hands," Tommy grumbled. But he paused, then slowly started to nod. The shiver running through him was not merely a response to the frigid basement; it was a tremble that had sunk into his chest and stomach. Added to that was a dull pain that throbbed through the center of his skull, as if someone were slowly working the blade of a hatchet between the two halves of his brain.

"We're gonna have to find you some antibiotics," Joel said quietly. He was well practiced in keeping his face impassive, but even so, the lines across his brow betrayed an unspoken worry.

"Where?" Tommy replied. "We don't have enough ration cards between us even to afford more'n a handful of pills."

Joel shook his head and muttered, "I'll figure somethin' out." Clearing his throat and standing, he stooped and retrieved the wool coat he had been sleeping under, as well as a pistol that sat on the ground beside it. The gun he tucked into his back waistband, but the coat he laid across Tommy's legs and boots.

"I'm gonna go find Jan and Annie," he said as he turned to the old-fashioned clothes rack and selected a long winter coat. "See what things are like out there after last night. See if I can't find some antibiotics."

He shrugged out of his old Carhartt, wincing as it pulled at the bandages around his arm. Tossing the bloodied jacket aside, he slipped into the heavier winter coat instead, which would hopefully attract less attention.

"You stay here," Joel grunted. "I'll be back soon as I can."

As he watched Joel move towards the steps leading up and out of the basement, Tommy fingered the heavy black pistol that lay beside him. Breslen's pistol.

"Joel," Tommy said suddenly, as his brother paused on the first step. "You think we're gonna have to leave? Baltimore, I mean."

Joel's face was grave as he looked back at Tommy then dropped his gaze, giving no answer. Tommy swallowed. Joel's lips parted and he looked up at the door above him, drawing a low, deep breath.

"He was right, wasn't he?" Joel said quietly, voice grating as he glanced back at Tommy. "Breslen. You helped the Fireflies steal that truck?"

An icy fist that had nothing to do with weather or fever wrapped around Tommy's chest. They had not yet spoken of last night's events, save to tend to wounds. Tommy could barely meet his brother's grim stare. When Tommy finally did lift his gaze, it was only for a second, and only to nod once, quickly.

The muscles around Joel's jaw tightened and he gave a pinched sigh before starting up the stairs again.

"Joel—" Tommy started to say.

"We'll talk about it later," his brother grunted, then opened the basement door and disappeared above.

* * *

><p><em>December 25, 2018, Early Evening<em>

It was dark by the time Joel returned. Tommy could see no stars through the basement's narrow windows and suspected it was cloudy outside, which brought the threat of more snow. Fat white flakes had been falling all day.

More concerning, however, had been the activity on the street above. Only FEDRA ran vehicles in the zone and most areas rarely saw them, yet throughout the day Tommy had heard no fewer than five heavy military trucks rumble past the old dry cleaning store, rattling the basement windows. He had heard people shouting too. This area of the zone was not residential. It housed a few odd work assignment areas, like a cannery and a salvage sorting yard, but it largely served as a buffer area for the zone's northwest corner. To hear as many people and trucks as Tommy had did not bode well. His hand had rarely left the pistol by his side.

So when footsteps suddenly thumped against the floorboards above him, scattering dust down on Tommy, he instantly tensed. Earlier, he had managed to scoot himself into a dark corner, partially concealed by a broken computer desk but still able to see the bottom of the basement stairs. He lifted Breslen's pistol, flicking the safety off and pulling the hammer back, though his fingers felt numb against the icy black metal.

The door to the basement opened. A flashlight fluttered across the dark steps and several pairs of boots began descending. Tommy held his breath.

"Tommy?"

The tension gripping Tommy released like a floodgate at the sound of Joel's voice, though he continued holding the pistol at the ready.

"Who's with you?" he said, voice catching after a day of cold and disuse.

The flashlight swiveled and caught Tommy in the face, causing him to squint, then quickly dropped to point at the ground.

"Sorry," came Joel's voice again. "It's Annie, Jan, and Percy." He paused, clearing his throat. "And Alex. Alex Vincent, from the Fireflies."

Relaxing finally, Tommy lowered his gun, just as he heard someone in the darkness behind Joel.

"Oh Jesus." It was Annie. She came forward into the light of Joel's flashlight and crouched before Tommy, her expression pinched and worried. "Oh my god, Tommy," she whispered, quietly horrified.

"Hey now," Tommy said. "Don't get so upset. Joel said ladies like scars. You sayin' they don't?"

Annie made a small disbelieving sound and glanced back at Joel, who shrugged with a half-smile. Shaking her head, Annie returned her attention to Tommy. "Scars, Tommy," she snorted. "Not havin' half your head bashed in. Maybe don't try so hard next time, huh?"

Tommy gave a ghost of a smile. "Yes ma'am."

She dug into her jacket and pulled out a small envelope. Splitting it open, she turned it over and dumped two white pills into her hand, which she offered to Tommy. "Take these."

"Holy shit," he said, accepting the pills and eyeing them in the dim light. "Where the hell did you get these?"

"Sherman," Annie replied. Joel grunted unhappily behind her, but she ignored him. "There's four more in the envelope. That's all I could afford."

"These musta cost a fortune."

"Let a girl splurge every now and then," she said, giving a small smile.

Behind Joel, someone rattled a box of matches as Tommy downed the two pills. A second later a flame flared to life and was plunged into the deep jar of a half-spent Yankee candle. Tommy recognized the candle. It was evergreen-scented and usually sat at the center of Jan's kitchen table, lit for only a short time each night while everyone ate dinner and tried to ignore the seeping winter chill.

"Jan," Tommy said, nodding appreciatively at the older women as the candlelight glimmered off her gray hair.

Jan always looked tired, but tonight she looked especially so, as if she had not slept. Her eyes were red and the skin around them gray, and she blinked heavily as she gave Tommy a weary smile.

"Tommy," she said as she knelt beside him. "Joel told us what happened. You two had us worried, I don't mind tellin' you."

"Wasn't intended," Tommy grunted as she held the candle up to his face and shoulder.

"That so? I don't know," Jan replied, tone quietly disappointed. "Joinin' up with rebels sure seems like a mighty quick way of gettin' yourself into trouble, especially after Breslen already gave you two a beating on suspicion of doin' just that."

Tommy's eyes flicked warily to Joel, but Joel only shook his head. He had not told them then, about the arrangement they had had with Breslen. It was probably better that way.

Especially with a Firefly in the room. In the dim light, Tommy could make out Alex's shape behind Joel, standing hunched forward in a way that made him look awkward and uncomfortable. For now, he seemed content to linger in the background.

Unlike the smallest person in the room. From behind Annie, Percy emerged from the darkness, eyes wide and white as he inched forward, lips parted. He came just close enough that he could put a hand on Annie's shoulder where she crouched before Tommy, but the boy did not seem inclined to come closer.

Tommy looked up at him, then gently tried to smile without jarring the bones in his face. "Hey, Perce," he said quietly.

Rather than relax, however, Percy stiffened and shifted as if to hide behind Annie. His eyes widened further still and his bottom lip trembled.

"Hey now," Annie said, looking behind her and taking a hold of Percy's hand. "Don't be afraid, Perce. He looks a little worse for wear, but it's still Tommy. C'mon. Come here." She gently pulled the boy around her until he stood before Tommy.

Tommy attempted a weak smile again, but let his eyes flicker to the cement floor as guilt rippled through him. For a seven-year-old, even one so plucky as Percy, the sight of Tommy's bloodied and broken face had to be terrifying. Tommy briefly recalled an incident, years ago, when Sarah had been younger than Percy was now. Tommy and Sarah had nervously waited in a hospital waiting room for three hours after Joel had cut his thumb to the bone on a construction job. Four-year-old Sarah had not slept for a month after, always waking to nightmares of her dad dying of a severed hand.

"C'mere," Tommy grunted, holding out his good hand to Percy. The boy edged forward. "Look at me, Perce. It just looks bad, that's all. I'm gonna be fine, all right?"

Slowly, Percy gave a few tiny nods. Then he pressed his lips together and quietly asked, "You got hit?"

Tommy nodded. "Yeah, I did."

"You hit him back?"

Tommy nodded again. "I had to. Otherwise he'd of hit me again."

"That's good," Percy said, more sure of himself now.

Jan had begun to unwrap the makeshift bandages around Tommy's shoulder to check the bullet wound there and Percy made a point of not looking too closely at the bloody strips of clothing she was peeling away. But he did glance back at Tommy, an anxious look crossing his face again.

"You got shot too?"

Jan looked up at Tommy as she worked, but he only nodded at Percy again. "Yeah," he said.

Percy's lips pressed together again. "But you're gonna be okay?"

"That's the plan." Tommy reached out and took hold of Percy's shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. The kid nodded as if he had decided to believe Tommy.

"This was a military gun?" Jan said abruptly, holding her candle closer to Tommy's wounded arm. "Doesn't look like it went very deep."

"Yeah, uh," Tommy grunted. "That's 'cause it went through someone else 'fore it got to me."

Jan looked up at him from under her brows, as if she did not want to know more. "Okay," she replied simply.

Tommy heard movement in the darkness behind Joel and looked up as his brother moved aside. Alex came forward into the flickering glow of Jan's candle. His face, always gray and grizzled, looked especially so now. His hair was tousled and greasy and a stain that looked very like blood had soaked the collar of his shirt. He still stood hunched unhappily and his expression carried none of its familiar false levity.

"Tommy," Alex said quietly, voice scraping.

"What happened?" Tommy asked, gesturing towards Alex's stained collar.

The Firefly shook his head. "Doesn't matter." He drew a deep breath and released it slowly. "Tommy, I'm sorry. We screwed up. We screwed up bad and you and Joel and a whole bunch of others are paying the price."

"That's about right," Joel muttered, striding forward and handing a red first aid box to Jan. He shot a sideways glare at Alex.

Tommy's brow furrowed. "What the hell's goin' on out there?"

"You can probably guess it," Jan sighed as she opened the box and pulled out a clean rag. "An attack on the commander's compound and the Chief of Perimeter Security dead with a squad of soldiers? It's been a real bright Christmas so far."

"Zone's been under curfew all day," Alex continued. "Military's out in force, pounding doors, checking names. If you can't show them your paperwork, you're arrested. There's at least three of my people I haven't heard from all day. Isn't good news."

"Do they know it was us?" Tommy asked. "With Breslen, I mean."

Alex pressed his lips together and shrugged, shaking his head. "I don't know. They had that Lieutenant Penoza – the guy who runs the supply depot for you leadmen – they had him in for questioning this morning, but I don't know what came of it. I've only got one person anywhere even within earshot of the top brass, and all they're saying is that Breslen talked to Penoza before grabbing a squad of soldiers and driving off into the night. How he knew to come straight to you two, I don't know. I don't _think_ he told anyone, but if I had to guess, I'd say it's only a matter of time before somebody figures it out."

"Tomorrow," Joel growled. "We weren't scheduled for duty today, and Jan said FEDRA didn't make it to Rexmere today with their knock and talks. But we're supposed to be on tomorrow. When we don't show up, they'll figure it out then, if they haven't already."

Alex swallowed and nodded solemnly, looking back down at Tommy. "Unfortunately, I think that's probably right." He paused, glanced at Joel, then licked his lips. "Listen, Tommy, I already talked to Joel about this. I can…I can get you two out of here, if you can manage it in your state. I can do it, but you'll need to go soon."

Tommy stared up at Alex with parted lips, looked briefly at his brother, and then back at the Firefly. The dread that had been clawing at his stomach all day, the question he had refused to think about, came slowly crawling into the back of his throat.

"You mean leave the zone? Leave Baltimore."

Alex nodded.

"We can't stay, Tommy," Joel muttered abruptly. The look he shot down at his brother was half resigned, half accusatory, as if he blamed Tommy for this turn of events. Not that Tommy could really debate the truth of that matter.

"We're known here," Joel continued. "Soon as they figure it out, they'll come lookin' for us. They know who we are. They know what we do, where we live. There ain't no keepin' our heads down after this."

"Joel's right," Jan muttered unexpectedly, leaning back from Tommy. He had never seen her lined face look so sad. "If you were in one of the gangs, that'd be one thing. They could hide you, pay off the right people. But you aren't. You're just a convenient pair of scapegoats FEDRA will want to pin this whole fiasco on."

Alex shifted uncomfortably again, but he seemed pricked by Jan's blunt assessment of the Fireflies' competence. "I'm trying to help," he said, jaw tightening.

They all quieted, looking down at Tommy as if his voice was the final confirmation they needed to go ahead with a plan they had already decided. Yet Tommy felt his shoulders go slack as a numbness set in that had nothing to do with the cold.

Baltimore was hardly paradise. Even before Breslen had forced them into gathering intelligence on the zone's underground rebels, life had been hard. Food, water, clothing, lighting – all had to be earned, and often defended. With such scarcity, human inhibitions were frequently cast aside and life became cheap. The gangs did as they pleased, as did FEDRA when it came down to it, though the military at least acted under the illusion of law and order.

Yet Baltimore was perhaps the only sort of safety there was these days. You still had to fear what other humans were capable of, but here at least there was some refuge from the chaotic fear of monsters with inhuman strength and speed.

Tommy's heart began to thump at the idea of returning to the open road. Of returning to what it took to survive in that yawning wasteland.

"Tell him about Boston," Joel grunted, glancing at Alex when Tommy failed to answer their stares.

"Right," Alex nodded. "Okay, look. The Fireflies are based out of Boston. That's where we started up four years ago. Still working to get a foothold further south, but we've got a lot of resources throughout New England and west of there."

"He doesn't need a history lesson," Joel growled impatiently. "Get to the point."

"The _point_ is," Alex continued. "We've got the networks there to get our people in and out of most zones without much difficulty. Not like here, where we're just hanging on by our fingernails. If you want, I can arrange to smuggle you into one of the zones north of here. I've got a group coming up from the south right now, headed for Boston. They're making a wide berth around Baltimore, but I can get word to them to meet you. Smuggle you into Boston, get you brand new papers, set you up somewhere until you can get your feet there."

They all briefly lapsed back into silence, again turning to watch Tommy's reaction. The writhing in his stomach had not abated, but the promise of Boston did at least offer some hope. His lips parted as he looked at Jan and Annie and Percy.

"What about these three?" he said at last.

"Annie's welcome to come too," Alex said. "Jan and Percy, I thought…" He drifted into an uncomfortable silence.

"We'd never make it outside these walls, Tommy," Jan answered for Alex, voicing aloud what they were all likely thinking. "I'm too old and Perce is too young." She pressed her lips together and gave a thin smile. "Don't you worry about us. We'll make do as we always have."

Percy did not look so convinced, judging from the trembling lower lip he was sucking on. But from the way the boy glanced up at Jan, Tommy guessed they had discussed the subject beforehand and Jan had already silenced Percy's objections.

Tommy drew a slow, deep breath and released it just as slowly. The light of Joel's flashlight and Jan's candle only half lit the faces of the people staring down at him.

"Okay," he said quietly.

Relief rippled through them, as if they had been expecting more resistance. Annoyance prickled at the back of Tommy's neck as he began to suspect they had all planned together how best to convince him to go. But it was annoyance that mixed with guilt and the knowledge that it was his own rash decision to help the Fireflies that had landed them in this situation. He was hardly in a place to complain.

"Good," Jan said, as if it were simply a deed that needed doing, regardless of how one felt about it. She reached into the first aid box and pulled forth a short bottle of amber liquid, which she handed to Tommy.

"This your idea of medicine?" he said.

"It will be when I use it to clean that," she replied, nodding at his shoulder, where she had unwrapped the gunshot wound and exposed the torn flesh to the frigid air. Yet as Tommy's expression abruptly sobered, Jan actually smiled. "But for now, it's just because it's Christmas."

Tommy's lips parted. "Hell, I'd almost forgotten."

"I figured. Drink up. It's the only warmth you'll get tonight, I'm afraid."

* * *

><p><em>December 25, 2018, Late Night<em>

It was snowing again. The flakes were fat and white against the black night, drifting down lazily from the sky above to blanket Baltimore's streets. To look up, the snow almost reminded Tommy of the floating spores that pervaded the dark places of the world these days. But to look down, the blanket of white was almost calming, briefly covering the dirt and grit of a world soured beyond recognition.

"I got somethin' for ya," Percy said, tearing Tommy's attention away from the street.

He looked down at the boy as they both stood leaning against a window sill at the front of the abandoned dry cleaning store. The only light was the pale reflection of the snow falling outside.

"Okay," Tommy said.

Percy dug into the pocket of his overlarge winter jacket and pulled out a black rubber wristband, which he placed on the window sill in front of Tommy. It was dirty, but it had bold white writing on one side that read _JUST DO IT._ As Tommy picked it up and flipped it over, he stifled a snort at the sight of the Nike swoosh logo on the other side.

"You even know what this is?" he said, smiling down at Percy around the unbroken side of his face.

Percy shrugged, eyes wide as he waited for Tommy's reaction.

"Where'd you get this?"

Again, Percy merely shrugged. "Dunno. Just found it."

Tommy lightly shook his head and smiled wearily again. "It's great, Perce," he said quietly. He cleared his throat. "Here, I got somethin' for you too."

Although his wounded arm was now held in a sling, Tommy used his good hand to fish out the metal lighter he always carried in his back pocket. He held it up to Percy, who took it slowly with parted lips.

"Really?" Percy said in awe.

"Really."

"Dun you need it?"

Tommy shook his head. "Joel's got one too, every gravedigger does. You keep that one. Don't waste it though. Never know when you'll really need it."

They lapsed into silence, each turning again to look out the window at the dark, snow-covered street beyond. Behind them, Tommy could hear Joel rustling through the backpacks that they would taking with them when they left Baltimore. Jan was helping him, quietly humming what sounded like _O Holy Night_ to herself as she worked.

Tommy glanced sidelong at Percy. As he did so, he thought back to what he had overheard Annie saying, almost a year ago. _I thought it'd be different here...Yeah, that's a fuckin' joke._ It was, and it was difficult not to give into the bitterness that followed that realization. Yet here was Percy, looking out the window with round eyes and thin lips, resigned and resilient, but not bitter. A world of loss and constant change was all the boy had known; what was there to be bitter about when he had never known different?

Tommy sighed.

Boots scraped behind them and, a few seconds later, Joel joined them at the window sill on the other side of Percy.

"Nothin?" he asked.

"Not yet," Tommy replied. "It's gotta be near midnight by now. Should be any time."

Joel nodded, glancing at his brother over Percy's head. "We're packed. Got enough ammo to last us 'til we can dig up somethin' outside the zone."

Again they drifted into silence, with only the sound of Jan's humming behind them. Last Christmas they had all sat round Jan's kitchen, sharing a stale Hershey bar, drinking hot apple cider, and each of them trying to remember enough Christmas carol lyrics to teach them to Percy. It had been simple and happy. This year, they all sat huddled in an abandoned dry cleaning store, listening to Jan hum _O Holy Night_ and watching the snow outside as they waited for Alex to return with a smuggler who would help Joel and Tommy escape the zone.

"Think you're ever gonna come back?" Percy suddenly asked, looking up.

Tommy frowned. "Maybe. Lotta things could happen. Maybe a few years from now, when nobody remembers us. But honest, I dunno, Perce."

"Don't count on it," Joel muttered. But when Percy's face fell, Joel cleared his throat. "I mean, ain't that we don't wanna," he continued less gruffly, though he looked out the window rather than at Percy. "Just don't count on anythin' happenin' tomorrow. Take what you got today and be done. Anythin' else you get is just luck."

Percy let his eyes slide down to stare at the window sill in thought, but he looked up again at Tommy a second later. "You gonna miss me, Tommy?"

Tommy snorted and lightly clapped the boy on the back, smiling. "Yeah, I am, kiddo."

"You gonna miss me, Joel?" Percy said next, switching his gaze.

Joel looked down at the kid. He didn't smile, but he did shake his head at Percy's continued persistence. "Yeah sure," he grumbled, looking out the window again.

Percy's teeth showed white as he turned to grin up at Tommy and silently mouth the word _Progress_ with a stifled giggle.

"There they are," Joel suddenly said, serious again. He tapped the window.

Tommy looked out into the street and could see Alex and Annie silhouetted against the white snow, both clinging to the sides of the buildings in an effort to remain as inconspicuous as possible. A man in a long coat and hood trailed behind them.

"Jan," Tommy called out, pushing away from the window. "They're here. Get the door."

The older woman emerged from the inky black store interior, nodded once, and headed for the entrance. A few seconds later, a gust of cold swept through the store as she opened the front door and admitted the three new arrivals.

For several seconds, all three stood in the entryway, stamping their feet and shaking their coats, snow falling in wet clumps to the floor. As Joel and Tommy approached them, Alex looked up and gave them a tired smile.

"Joel, Tommy," he greeted. "How you holding up?"

"Better'n ever," Joel muttered.

Alex nodded and sniffed, his nose bright red with the cold. "Boys, this is Mick," he said, jerking a thumb towards the hooded man behind him. "He's a Leadman Lighter. Used to be a gravedigger like you two."

The man pulled back his coat hood and shook his head, running a gloved hand through wet blond hair. Snowflakes still clung to the man's bushy blond beard. "Pleased t'meet you," Mick said, holding out a hand. "Understand I'm goin' to be smugglin' the two of you outta this place tonight."

Joel and Tommy nodded together, each shaking the Lighter's hand in turn.

"You done this for the Fireflies before?" Joel asked.

Mick nodded. "Coupla times. We've got a coupla tunnels, mostly on the west side, all goin' under the walls. I'll getcha outta here safe and sound."

"What's it gonna cost?"

The smuggler lifted his brows and smiled. "You's the two who killed Jack Breslen?"

Joel and Tommy looked at each other, then nodded slowly.

"Then I'm doin' this job free," Mick grinned. "I only joined the Lighters after that bastard shot a pal of mine and didn't like it when I tried to beat his ass for it. Would've shot me if I hadn't got out. The Lighters are sort've a Jack Breslen rehab group, doin' exactly what he hated most, which is mostly comin' and goin' as we please."

Joel gave a half-smile. "You give us a few minutes?"

"I'll be right here," the smuggler nodded.

Joel waved Annie and Jan towards the back of the store, where long snaking lines of clothes hangers had long ago been pillaged by looters. But it was dark and relatively private. A place for goodbyes. Tommy and Percy followed them without a word.

After the awkward shuffling and uncomfortable clearing of throats had quieted, Annie clasped her hands in front of her and looked up at Joel and Tommy from under her brows.

"Boys, I'm..." she said softly. Her voice caught and she pressed her lips together before trying again. "I'm not comin' with you."

Tommy's mouth opened, but Joel sighed and looked at the floorboards as if he had been expecting Annie's revelation.

"I'm sorry, I just..." she continued, taking a breath as if to keep her voice from breaking again. "Baltimore ain't perfect, but it ain't..."

"It ain't out there," Joel finished for her, nodding. "It's okay. We ain't askin' you to come, Annie. This is our problem. You still got somethin' here." He gestured towards Jan and Percy. Annie nodded

Tommy swallowed his surprise and tried to give her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. It was not easy. Annie was a rock. Through nearly four years of hell, she had always been there, as pragmatic and quick to action as Joel, but with less anger and more compassion. Even after she and Joel had broken it off, none of them had even considered that she would then somehow cease to be a part of their lives. People you could depend on were few and far between; you did not lightly give them up.

Until you were forced to.

Annie stepped forward and took Joel's head in her hands. She was not tall enough to put her brow against his, but she leaned her head forward and began quietly speaking to him. Not wanting to interrupt the two, Tommy and Jan moved off a few feet, pulling Percy with them.

"Well," Tommy said, sighing as he looked at Jan.

"Well," she replied.

"This is shitty," Percy suddenly said.

Jan pursed her lips. "Language, Perce."

"This is crappy."

Both Tommy and Jan half-smiled at each other and shook their heads. Sighing, Jan pulled Tommy towards her and hugged him, tight and quick, before releasing him and stepping back a pace.

"I never told you I have kids," she said. At Tommy's surprised expression, she nodded. "My husband died of cancer a long time before any of this, but I have a son and a daughter. Both about the same age as you and Joel...Mark and Erin." She had to stop for a moment and swallow. "I don't know what happened to them. They lived far away from here."

"I'm sorry," Tommy said quietly, but Jan shook her head.

"Don't be. Everybody's got a story. What I mean is _this_ is what matters now." She wrapped a hand around Percy and placed the other on Tommy's uninjured shoulder. "This is my family now. It's whoever it needs to be, wherever I find them. Remember that."

Tommy nodded, as quietly amazed as ever at Jan's weathered, unflappable resilience. Drawing a slow breath, Tommy knelt and wrapped his good arm around Percy, who threw both of his arms around Tommy's chest in return.

"You be good, got it?" Tommy said.

"I'll try. And you too."

Tommy snorted. "I'll try."

Standing again, Tommy glanced back at Joel and Annie to see them just stepping back from a hug. Annie gave a quick, sharp nod and stuck her hands into her jacket pockets, while Joel stood there unmoving, expression unreadable. Annie looked up at him one last time before moving towards Tommy. Jan and Percy shifted to say their goodbyes to Joel next.

As she approached Tommy, Annie wasted no time with awkward shuffling around the subject. Instead, she wrapped her arms around him and hugged him tightly, quietly murmuring, "I'm gonna miss you two."

Tommy had no words, so he simply held her embrace until she pulled away. She hid it well, but she briefly brushed her thumb under her nose as if she were only just holding back her emotions. Clearing her throat, she let her gaze fall for a second, then looked up at Tommy with a sigh.

"You remember I once told you Joel was scared to death?"

Tommy nodded.

"It's still true." Annie's tone softened, but became almost pleading. "I'm not gonna be there anymore, so you two gotta stop always snappin' at its each other's throats. Okay? The two of you is all you got now. I don't care how different you are – you need to be able to depend on one another. So you pick the fights you can win and stop lookin' for those you can't. And understand why Joel does things the way he does."

She glanced over her shoulder, where Joel was speaking quietly with Jan. When Annie looked back to Tommy, her voice dropped to a whisper. "And look after him. Please, Tommy. He needs it, more'n he'll ever admit."

There were tears in her voice, if not on her face.

"Okay," was all Tommy could manage.

Annie gave the same sharp nod she had given to Joel moments before and stepped back, just as Joel and Jan seemed to be wrapping up as well.

"You ready?" Joel muttered, voice thick as he looked to his brother.

Tommy nodded.

"Alex, Mick," Joel called out, the familiar growl working its way back into his tone. "We're ready."

The ragtag little family made its way back to the front of the store, where Alex and Mick stood waiting with their hands thrust into their pockets, breath fogging in front of them. Without a word, Mick opened the door and stepped outside, checking the street beyond for signs of life. After a second, he looked back and gave Alex a curt nod.

"Okay, let's go," Alex said, stepping out after the smuggler.

Joel and Tommy paused over the threshold, each glancing back. Shrouded by the darkness, with Percy standing between them, Jan and Annie suddenly looked small and alone. Yet they stood with straight backs and chins thrust out, the strength and steadiness in their expressions overriding the sadness that lingered in their eyes.

"Merry Christmas!" Percy suddenly piped up, as if he had all but forgotten.

Tommy felt his throat grow tight. "Merry Christmas," he mumbled.

Then the two brothers turned and Joel pulled the door closed behind them.

* * *

><p><strong>Goodbye, Baltimore. Tune in next time as Tommy and Joel meet a certain someone and learn once again what it takes to survive outside the quarantine zone.<strong>

**Thanks for reading and reviewing! Again, apologies for the lengthy update delay, but just a reminder that I make a habit of posting status updates to my profile if I am delayed in getting an update out. So if it seems like I'm taking longer than normal to update, just check my profile for information! Alternatively, I also always reply to PMs or reviews (when the reviewer is logged in) that are asking a question, so if you're wondering about when the next update might be along, just ask!**

**As a fun aside, the more detail-oriented (detail-obsessive?) amongst you may have realized with this chapter that we've actually finally met our first canon character who isn't Joel or Tommy, albeit it's not a character we ever actually "meet" in the game. Anyone know who it is? :)**


	17. Chapter 17 - Blood Whiskey

Chapter 17

_December 26, 2018, Afternoon_

The door groaned under Joel's weight as he slammed his shoulder against the painted black wood. The screen door, hanging off its top hinge, wobbled drunkenly in the biting winter wind, occasionally slapping the back of Joel's leg as he heaved a second time against the front door. Again the wood groaned in protest, but this time there came also the sharp crack of ice breaking around the doorjamb.

"One more," Joel huffed. "Get ready."

Grunting, he threw himself against the frozen door again and was rewarded this time by the louder crunch of ice giving way as the door bucked inward a foot and stuck. Still swollen by the cold, it remained only partially open until Joel heaved against it again, opening it another foot – wide enough to get through.

Angry, agitated croaking suddenly echoed from somewhere inside the small house.

"Fuck," Tommy whispered as Joel quickly retreated back out onto the front porch.

They stood on the cement stoop of a compact, one-story house build of brick and white-washed wood. A distinctive black wagon wheel, nearly as tall as Tommy's chest, leaned against the front of the house, half buried by the snow, while up and down the street spread long lines of quaint cottages just like this one, all gracefully surrounded by bare oaks and birches in a picture of aged Maryland charm.

"Use this," Joel said quickly, keeping his voice low as he handed Tommy a metal hatchet and readied a short claw hammer of his own.

Tommy holstered the pistol he had been holding and accepted the hatchet from Joel without a word. Within the house, they could still hear the restless croaking of infected – screeching a stuttering, overlapping pattern as if there were more than one. Through the open door, they could see a blue-carpeted living room and adjoining dining room. A break in the far wall revealed linoleum, suggesting a kitchen located at the rear of the house.

"Ready?" Joel whispered, to which Tommy nodded.

Easing through the open door, Joel crouched low, holding his hammer at the ready in front of him. The croaking clicks grew louder as Tommy crept after his brother, slipping through the door as quietly as he could with his bandaged shoulder. From the echo of the clicks, Tommy guessed the infected were gathered in the kitchen. Joel took the lead, scuttling forward to press himself against the far wall that divided the living room from the kitchen. After a quick peek around the edge of the wall, he looked back at Tommy, who still lingered by the door.

_Two_, Joel mouthed, holding up two fingers. He also raised his hands to either side of his head, mimicking a big head. Both Clickers. Next Joel pointed towards the dining room, which also shared a wall with the kitchen and formed a second entrance. Tommy began creeping towards that opening, clutching his slung arm to his stomach and biting back the pain that throbbed through his face every time he took a step. Wet from the snow, his boots left dark stains across the blue carpet.

Once he reached the other kitchen entrance, Tommy crouched beside the wall and risked a look into the room. It was dark, lit only by the pale light of the snow outside. An old-fashioned round table sat in one corner beneath a hanging Tiffany lamp, and swamp green countertops that were probably popular in the 1970s rimmed a good half of the room. At the center of the kitchen shuffled two Clickers, each jerking violently every few seconds as if tortured by the infection that had ravaged their brains. One was dressed in a tatty gray sweater and slacks, the other in a ripped windbreaker.

Across the room, Joel leaned out from his cover and caught Tommy's eye. He pointed at the Clicker nearest him – the one in the gray sweater – then at himself. Tommy nodded silently and touched a finger against his own chest, pointing at the infected in the windbreaker, who had just bumped against the kitchen sink and stood gripping the edge of the counter, clicking angrily and swinging its malformed head back and forth.

Tommy drew a deep breath to steady himself as he leaned back against the wall for a second, forcing himself to ignore the ever-present throb pulsing through his shoulder and face. His fingers felt cold around the metal handle of the hatchet he held. But then he leaned back around the edge of the wall, all business.

Joel stood and quickly entered the small kitchen, in two long strides crossing the few feet between him and the Clicker in the gray sweater. Both infected instantly straightened at the sound of his boots thumping across the linoleum, but by the time they had swung to face the noise, Joel had already raised his hammer above his target's head.

_AAAHHCCKK!_

The Clicker's scream was pure, unbridled fury as the flat claw of the hammer suddenly thunked into the side of its head, missing the awkward fleshy folds of fungus and instead burying solidly into the creature's temple. The second Clicker immediately echoed its fellow's cry and started to rush towards Joel.

"Hey!" Tommy yelled, entering the kitchen fast on the heels of the Clicker in the windbreaker. Whirling around, it spread its claws wide, rapidly clicking as it sought to locate Tommy, taking only a second to do so before it started barreling towards him.

Swinging his hatchet high, Tommy caught the rushing Clicker straight across the face, or what would once have been its face. The creature stumbled back, screeching in agony as Tommy's blow opened a wide bloody gash across the fungal folds engulfing its head.

Behind his own target, Tommy saw the Clicker in the gray sweater shake its head and charge Joel, despite the gaping red hole now torn into its temple. Again Joel lashed out with his hammer, this time catching the monster under its chin with the sound of breaking bone and teeth. Yet when the Clicker only staggered back a pace, its back bumping against the green counter, Joel rushed it, grabbing its head and slamming it down against the hard edge of the countertop. The Clicker screamed again and collapsed to the floor, blood spraying across the linoleum.

The Clicker in the windbreaker seemed unaffected by the sounds of its dying fellow. Instead, it trailed blood across the floor as it charged towards Tommy again, claws extended before it as it sought desperately for its prey. Tommy swung out with the hatchet, this time slicing the infected across the bottom part of its neck. Its croaking stopped, but the rapid clicking continued until Tommy had unburied the blade and swung it a third time, this time catching the Clicker above its gaping maw, where its eyes might once have been. The creature's legs buckled and it tumbled lifelessly to the floor.

Beyond, Joel was shouting as he slammed his boot down onto the head of the twitching Clicker in the gray sweater, repeatedly crushing the monster's skull until its desperate croaking had abated.

Breathing heavily, both brothers straightened, each gripping the counter to keep from sliding on the blood-slick linoleum. They held their breaths, listening for sounds of other infected, but the house was silent, a cold tomb for the two former inhabitants now lying dead on its kitchen floor.

Tommy released his breath as he skirted around the edge of the kitchen, mildly disconcerted, as he always was, that these monsters still bled red.

"You good?" he asked.

Joel nodded without a word, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth as he lightly kicked his boot against the side of the kitchen counter. Bits of the dead Clicker's crushed head still clung to the sole.

"Why don't you go check out the rest of the place," Joel muttered, laying his hammer on the counter. "I'll take these two outside."

* * *

><p><em>December 26, 2018, Night<em>

Tommy woke to darkness. He could see the pale reflection of snow through the windows, but otherwise the bedroom was draped in shadows. It felt strange to wake up in a bed and not find himself staring at Percy curled up on Jan's old leather loveseat beside the door. It felt even stranger to wake up to silence. Tommy fought the creeping sense of wrongness that was tingling up his spine, reminding himself how unnerving he once had found the constant noise in Baltimore.

He found himself wishing for that noise now.

Rolling off the bed, he rubbed gently at his good eye and let himself look around the room. It was just as dated as the kitchen had been, but homely and comfortable. A wooden bureau and a dusty mirror. A writing desk beneath a hanging 2013 calendar. A sitting stool beside a row of tidy men's shoes. Even dark and cold as it was, the bedroom was oddly untouched, reminding Tommy more of a chill night after the power has gone out than a place abandoned for five years.

Reaching out, Tommy felt in the darkness until his fingers brushed against the nightstand and met the cold metal of a flashlight. He flicked it on. His sling lay draped over a dead alarm clock and a picture frame, and as he picked it up and started to pull it over his head, he glanced at the picture.

It showed an older man, heavily receding silver hair, white mustache, red sweater vest. And a woman, much younger, red hair and freckles, daredevil eyes, arm extended as if holding the camera. Both were smiling, though the man was smirking as if tempted to roll his eyes.

Tommy's thoughts flashed briefly to the two Clickers, a gray sweater and a tattered windbreaker. Frowning, he looked away.

He found Joel in the kitchen, seated beneath the Tiffany lamp with a half dozen tea lights scattered around the room for light. An open bottle of Jameson Irish Whiskey sat on the table beside Joel, a half-empty glass within arm's reach. Over one knee, he had draped his old Carhartt jacket and he held a needle and thread as if he had begun stitching up the gaping hole in the stained right sleeve. Yet as Tommy stepped into the light of the kitchen and lingered in the doorway, Joel's head was down and breathing heavy, a hand rubbing tiredly at closed eyes.

A floorboard creaked beneath Tommy and Joel abruptly jerked out of his reverie, hand instinctively darting towards his rear waistband.

"Easy," Tommy said as Joel's alarm subsided and he slumped back into the kitchen chair again.

Joel drowsily cleared his throat. "Sleep well?"

"Guess so," Tommy nodded. "How long was I out for?"

"Coupla hours. Should go back to sleep after you get somethin' to eat. Go on, there's a coupla open cans on the counter."

Joel had moved the two dead Clickers into the backyard and cleaned up the kitchen as best he could, but streaks of blood beneath the counters still glimmered dark in the flickering light of the tea lights. Beside the stove, Tommy found an open can of corn and another of beans and bacon.

Several hanging pictures had been stacked face down in one corner of the countertop and Tommy absently flipped one over as he began opening drawers in search of silverware. The frame he picked up housed five photos, each showing the same man and woman who had been in the photo beside Tommy's bed. Several looked recent, with the pair at a ballgame and standing in front of the Statue of Liberty, but the others were clearly older: at a birthday party, the man's hair and mustache brown, a young girl seated atop his shoulders; in an old Volvo, a gangly teenage girl at the wheel; in front of a grand brick building, the woman in a graduation gown, the man beaming beside her.

Tommy pressed his lips together as he stared at the photos, then let his gaze slowly slide sideways to where Joel was absently taking a swig from the glass of whiskey beside him. The photos had not been stacked in the corner when they had first arrived.

Sighing, Tommy put the picture frame back down and dug a spoon out of the drawer before him. He grabbed the two open cans and joined his brother at the table.

"How's the eye?" Joel mumbled as Tommy sank into a chair across from him.

"Still blurry," Tommy replied. He dipped the spoon into the can of beans. "Like when you wake up in the mornin', only it doesn't go away. And still hurts like hell."

The glass of whiskey scraped as Joel pushed it across the table. "Ain't morphine, but it's somethin'."

"Thanks," Tommy nodded, taking a sip and closing his eyes as the liquor burned warm and sharp.

"Still lookin' for antibiotics," Joel continued. "Older guy lived here, so I figure there might be some in that bedroom you were in." His speech was slurry around the edges, like he had been at the whiskey for awhile now. "Whole house is in pretty good shape, though. Like nobody's hit it. Probably enough here to tide us over for a good while."

Tommy nodded, but shrugged as he swallowed a mouthful of canned corn. "Maybe, but we can't stay here more'n a day if we're gonna make it to the rendezvous with Alex's people in a week. I found a map in the bedroom. It's probably four or five days to Catonsville at the rate I'm movin."

Joel glanced at Tommy, then pulled the glass of whiskey back towards him and threw back another mouthful. He pursed his lips as he stared straight ahead, not looking at Tommy.

"We're not goin'."

Tommy frowned. "I'm fine, Joel. We got the time to take it easy if we need to, and I know how far I can push myself."

"I said we're not goin'," Joel repeated, a growl creeping into his tone. "You're gonna rest up like you should and we're not goin' anywhere near Fireflies or Weathermen or anyone like 'em."

"What?" Tommy said, lips parting as he dropped his spoon into the can of beans. "The Fireflies _helped_ us, Joel. They got us outta Baltimore."

"They drove us out, Tommy. Wouldn't had to leave in the first place if not for them."

"That was _my_ fault, not theirs."

The whiskey and cans of food suddenly jumped as Joel's fist slammed down on the table. "Same damn thing," he growled, still slurry as he pointed at his brother. "They got under your skin, made you lose your head. You just get to thinkin' stupid and you don't look back, and it cost us Baltimore and Annie and Jan. Damn near cost us our lives."

Joel hadn't raised his voice, but his tone was low and flinty, and his eyes, even watery with the whiskey, gleamed angrily in the flickering tea lights. "We're gonna go somewhere quiet," he muttered, looking away from Tommy. "Somewhere outta the way where we can get it _right_ this time. And that means lookin' out for us _only_. No more lettin' your goddamned righteousness try to kill us."

Tommy felt his temper flare, but whatever had broken in his face forced him to move his jaw only gingerly and shouting was not an option. And as Joel took another swig of whiskey, Tommy knew shouting would have been pointless anyhow. His brother was not a happy drunk.

So Tommy tried reason instead. "Joel," he said. "Alex said he'd keep tabs on Annie and Jan and Percy. We don't go to Boston, we ain't ever gonna know how they're gettin' on in Baltimore."

"Fine," Joel returned, growing louder now as he heaved himself out of his chair and shuffled towards the kitchen counter. He threw a hand up, movements exaggerated by the liquor. "They're better off without you bringin' trouble down on 'em anyway. And _we're_ better off on our own. We'd never of had to go near Fireflies if Breslen hadn't had someone to threaten so we'd help him."

"That's no fuckin' excuse, Joel," Tommy spat angrily, grimacing as the broken bones beneath his left eye sent pain splitting through his face. He thumped the tabletop with a finger, desperately trying to keep himself from shouting. "All you do is push people away anymore. Breslen's just an excuse and you know it. You only liked Jan 'cause she never pried, never asked anythin' of you. You acted – you _still_ act – like Percy didn't exist. And you drove Annie away 'cause you couldn't deal with her wantin' more."

"Shut up, Tommy," Joel scowled. "You don't have a goddamned idea. Whatever you _think_ Baltimore was, it ain't any different than out here. Only difference is out here we got infected and no walls. But everythin' else is the same."

"So, what? So we just shut out everybody? Just to survive?"

"If we have to. There's some people are just gonna be baggage, Tommy. You gotta learn to deal with that."

Tommy stared at his brother, mouth open and disbelieving. He could not find words to respond at first and looked instead at the table, shaking his head. Joel leaned against the counter, swaying, not quite looking at Tommy. The flickering light threw odd shadows across his face, deepening the lines that had formed around his eyes and mouth, making his expression look hard and gritty.

"What the _fuck_ happened to you, Joel?" Tommy said suddenly, looking up again. "You lost a daughter, but I lost a niece. And I ain't throwin' fuck all to the wind 'cause of it." He thumped a finger against the tabletop again, ignoring Joel's sharp intake of breath. "You can't do it like this. You think you can just keep everybody out and you'll be fine, but you can't. You gotta deal with what happened and move on."

"I am," Joel growled.

"You're not! You wanna be on our own 'cause you think we got a better chance that way. But what's the goddamn point then? Annie had the right idea, stayin' behind like she did. At least she's doin' somethin' worth doin'. You think she's weak 'cause of it? 'Cause she chose an old woman and a kid over stayin' with us?"

"Maybe she is," Joel spat, though his words slurred more than previously, as if he couldn't quite bring himself to directly disdain Annie's decision.

"She stayed 'cause she _cared_ about 'em, Joel." Tommy shook his head. He felt spite creeping into his tone. "Remember what that feels like?"

"What the hell's that mean?"

"I mean you act like you don't give a damn about anyone or anything anymore. It's all about survivin', all about makin' it through the next day."

Joel suddenly threw his hands out, gesturing clumsily towards the window above the kitchen sink. "Look outside, Tommy! That's what you do. That's what you have to do."

"What if Sarah were alive?"

Joel looked as if he'd been slapped. His mouth fell open as if having been on the cusp of a reply, but the whiskey had made his movements slow and exaggerated. He blinked once in surprise before the grim scowl began creeping back across his face.

"What?" he asked darkly.

"What if she'd lived?" Tommy repeated.

"That's not what we're talkin' about right now."

"Yes it is. What if she'd lived?"

The lines around Joel's mouth tightened. "We're not doin' this, Tommy. We're talkin' about you and the goddamn Fireflies."

"No we're not," Tommy said, throwing caution to the wind. "What if Sarah had lived, Joel? Would you still be callin' kids baggage? What if she'd lived?"

An angry shiver was shaking through Joel's breath as he leaned against the counter, knuckles turning white as he gripped the swamp green laminate. His eyes were watery with the alcohol, but they bored straight into Tommy, as hard and steady as if Joel were sizing up a lunging Runner. He didn't move for several seconds, didn't say a thing, didn't look at anything except his brother. Tommy began to wonder if Joel was considering striking him, even despite Tommy's wounded shoulder and face.

But then Joel grunted and turned away towards the living room as if to walk away. Of course he was. Of course he was walking away. Anger flashed through Tommy.

"You won't even talk about her!" he yelled, wincing against the pain that shot through his cheek. "_What if she'd lived, Joel?_"

"She _didn't_!"

Joel had whirled around, fury writ across his face, which was suddenly flush red.

"She died, Tommy! That what you wanna hear?" He braced a hand against the doorjamb to steady himself, but he looked anything but stricken. Rage twisted his expression. "What the hell do you want? You want me to admit she's dead? Fine. She is. You want me to admit I'm a heartless son of a bitch? Fine. I am."

Joel was shouting, his features contorted, his usual grim detachment shattered by the whiskey that still slurred his speech. He jabbed a finger towards Tommy. "You wanna talk about _me_? You take just one second to get off your goddamn soap box and you might see what a goddamn mess you always leave behind. You always think you got it right, think you're so goddamn smart." He snorted. "It's 'cause of _you_ that we got dragged into Baltimore. And it's 'cause of _you_ that we're runnin' now. You wanna talk about what a bastard I am? How about _you_? For makin' it so we had to leave Annie and Jan and Percy in the first place."

Tommy stared up at his brother, eyes wide and incredulous, but not stupid enough to interrupt Joel's drunken rage.

"You think me doin' what it takes to survive is what's always gettin' us nearly killed?" Joel continued, growling. "It ain't. It's you shootin' your mouth off anytime anybody so much as looks at you sideways. So don't talk about what _I_ should be doin'. My—" He sucked in a sharp breath and let out a shaky one, seeming to grow angry with himself. "Sa—" He paused again, jaw tightening. "She's dead, Tommy. She died, a long time ago, and none of your goddamn what-ifs are gonna make a difference.

"So stop fuckin' pickin' at me," Joel said, punctuating each word. "Get up and deal with it. We're not goin' to Boston. We're not goin' near Fireflies. We're goin' somewhere where you ain't gonna get us killed."

He held Tommy's hushed gaze for a few seconds, then started to turn again to leave the kitchen. Yet Joel paused before he left, shooting his brother a dark and ugly scowl.

"And I swear to god, Tommy," he growled, voice grating like broken glass on stone. "If you use her name to try and get a _fuckin'_ rise outta me again, I'll break the other side of your goddamn face."

* * *

><p><em>December 27, 2018, Morning<em>

Gray light lay across the bedroom and crept into the small bathroom where Tommy stood, and ice crystals were already forming on the outside of the metal mixing bowl he had filled with melting snow and placed beside the sink. He dipped the washcloth he held into the bowl again and looked up at the mirror, dabbing gingerly at his cheek as he squinted in the semi-darkness.

A splotchy black bruise and burst blood vessels spread out from the jagged L-shaped gash that cut across his cheek. It stretched from the top of his left eye nearly to the base of his nose, a perfect indentation of one corner of a two-by-four. As for the eye itself, it was still shot through with blood, completely devoid of white.

Tommy blinked at the mirror and covered his right eye. Still blurry

Sighing, he dropped the washcloth into the mixing bowl and instead grabbed the bottle of antibiotics that had been sitting on the edge of the bathroom counter.

In the hallway, the door to the cottage's second bedroom was open as he stepped out of his own room, boots squeaking across the hardwood floor. He moved as quietly as he could, cautious as he started towards the central part of the house.

The same gray light streamed through the living room windows and across the blue carpet. Outside, the street was still white with snow, but the sky was clear and crisp, promising a day of navigating ice and crunching through hard, crusted snow. Yet Tommy did not let his gaze linger on the window. In the kitchen, he could hear the odd thump and clatter of someone rustling through kitchen cabinets.

Joel stood with his back to the kitchen door, pulling cans of soup and vegetables down from an open cupboard and stuffing them into the open backpack that sat on the counter. Several water bottles lay beside the sink, next to a large bowl of melted snow.

As Tommy's boots scraped against the linoleum, Joel glanced behind him. He caught Tommy's gaze for a second before the lines around his mouth tightened and he returned to what he had been doing. Tommy cleared his throat.

"Found a bottle of old penicillin in the bathroom," Tommy muttered, watching his brother from the doorway.

"Good," Joel grunted without looking back.

He shut the cabinet door and finished stuffing the last of the canned goods into his backpack, which he quickly zipped shut. That done, he moved towards the sink and opened one of the empty water bottles.

"Plannin' on headin' out soon?" Tommy said as Joel carefully began pouring the bowl of water into the open bottle.

Joel did not deign to reply this time.

Tommy swallowed, staring at his brother's back, dreading another outburst like the night before. He felt the tension begin to creep into his shoulders as he cautiously said, "Listen, Joel…"

Joel remained with his back to Tommy, giving no indication he had heard his brother.

"Joel," Tommy started again. "Let's…let's go to Boston. Please. I'll do like you want, but let's go to Boston. At least there we won't have to deal with infected."

Joel was filling the second water bottle now and still gave no reply.

Tommy cleared his throat again. "I'll do whatever you want, okay? I swear. We'll keep our heads down and I'll keep my mouth shut. It'll just be us."

Joel thrust one of the filled water bottles into a pocket on the side of his backpack and hoisted the pack over one shoulder. He turned around from the counter finally, grabbing the second bottle before locking stares with Tommy. Joel's eyes were red from the whiskey the night before, but his face was as grim and unreadable as it usually was these days. He sized Tommy up for a moment, lips tight.

"Fine."

The answer was little more than a grunt as he shoved the second water bottle into Tommy's chest and pushed past where Tommy stood in the doorway. Swallowing, Tommy let his gaze slide away from his brother. In the gray kitchen, the bottle of whiskey still sat on the table beneath the Tiffany lamp, and under the counters, blood still streaked the linoleum floor.

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks for reading and reviewing! And for my regular readers especially, thank you for your patience as I got through exams and an often unpredictable end-of-semester schedule! It's been a busy month and a half, but I'm on my Christmas break now until mid-January, then back to a regular school schedule, so I anticipate being back to updating every week or two now.<strong>

**Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays! Doesn't it just put you in the holiday spirit whenever you see a good sibling shouting match? :) Tune in next time!**


	18. Chapter 18 - Checkpoint Charlie

**_Scroll down to the start of the chapter if you don't need RL details. _If you _do_ like details on RL locations used in the game and this story, then a couple of notes.****  
><strong>

**LOCATION NOTES: First, for the curious, the retirement home/old seminary referenced in the first scene is a place called Charlestown in Catonsville, MD. Once home to my very own grandparents. Love you, Nana and Gran. ;)**

**Secondary, and more importantly, we encounter Boston for the first time in this chapter. I spent a lot of time pouring over the two map artifacts we have of Boston from the game ("Boston Q.Z. Map" and "Patrol Routes Map"), as well as real life Google maps and Google Earth maps. The QZ is located in real life Boston's North End – the piers and roads depicted in the QZ Map very clearly correlate with the piers and roads in the RL North End. The conundrum I ran into is that the two game maps depict walls in two overlapping locations. The QZ Map has a wall following Washington/Cross Streets, with a green "buffer zone" beyond. By contrast, the Patrol Routes Map has a wall running along State/Court/Cambridge Streets, which very roughly parallel Washington/Cross, except they are farther out (i.e. they would form the perimeter of a much larger zone). Hand-written notes indicate that there are patrols outside each of these sets of walls.**

**So I figured there were two options: 1) Boston has a two sets of walls, with one being the outer perimeter, with a green buffer zone between it and the inner perimeter and main quarantine zone; or 2) Boston at one point had a much larger perimeter and has since shrunk in size. I chose to go with the second option. There are several reasons for this. First, the Patrol Routes Map is found abandoned in an old tunnel, whereas the Boston QZ Map is in Joel's pack when you pick it up, so I figured the Patrol Routes Map could easily be outdated and thus have been discarded. Second, both maps note that there are patrols along the outside of the wall, and it made more sense that there would be patrols outside the actual zone, rather than outside some inner perimeter wall that was nonetheless still inside the actual quarantine zone. Third, if the current wall followed State/Court/Cambridge Streets as depicted in the Patrol Routes Map, then the outer perimeter of the QZ would actually be quite close to the Capitol Building. Tess's comment to Marlene and the length of the journey we play through indicates that the Capitol Building is actually quite far from the QZ. And finally, the idea that Boston was once larger and has now been beaten back to a more restricted space fits with the general idea of the zone in decay. It's survived 20 years, but there are fewer people and supplies now, thus defending and keeping a larger area free of infected would be increasingly difficult. That could easily prompt military leaders to draw back their forces to a smaller, more easily defensible zone.**

**So, there's some information overload for you. :) **** When Joel and Tommy arrive at Boston, the Patrol Routes Map is accurate, with the outer perimeter located along State/Court/Cambridge Streets. At some point in the years between now (2019) and the start of the game (2033), that perimeter is pushed back. It's not something I felt was necessary to weave into the story (although it might be mentioned in future chapters), but I wanted to explain my assumptions and reasoning because I know some of you follow this type of stuff fairly closely! I was much vaguer about locations when we were in Baltimore, but now that we're into Boston and have maps from the game, I will be trying as much possible to use RL locations in Boston's North End.**

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 18<span>

_January 2, 2019, Noon_

Green cloth floundered lightly in the wind.

Even after years of neglect, the old seminary building still retained a sense of imposing grandeur and aged stateliness. Its long façade was built of yellow brick and fieldstone, with two long white columns adorning either side of its doorway. Green awnings had once hung above each of the third floor windows, but most had rotted from sun damage and damp and clung loosely to their rusted frames, flapping limply with the breeze.

Don't go into any of the buildings, Alex had said.

Every now and again, Tommy thought he glimpsed movement behind the windows as they walked along the long building, keeping to what felt like an old walkway beside an overgrown hedge. Snow still covered the ground and clung frozen to the bare branches of the trees they passed. The windows were dark and patterned with ice and frost, but that did not prevent Joel and Tommy watching them warily for signs of life.

It had been an old folks home, Alex had said, built around an abandoned Catholic seminary. The campus was a vast array of snow-covered fields, broken up by red and yellow brick apartment buildings that must once have housed several thousand senior citizens. Scavengers and hunters avoided the place, the Firefly had reassured them. Wooden boards and the occasional military barricade covered every door, with ominous red spray-paint warning away would-be opportunists: _Infected Inside_.

"There it is," Joel said, pointing ahead.

The church intersected the old seminary, and was built of the same yellow brick and in the same Romanesque style. It had a vaulted roof and tall, arched windows, and as the brothers came round the end of the seminary, a towering dome covered in red clay tile rose before them.

"Holy shit," Tommy whispered in awe. "Hard to believe a place like this still exists."

"Mmhmm," Joel grunted. He reached behind him and pulled his pistol from his rear waistband. Tommy followed suit.

Looking up at the dome, Tommy searched the windows beneath it for signs that they were being watched, but the windows were black and dull with grime, easily concealing anything inside. Tommy trailed his brother as they crossed the open area between the church and the old seminary, headed for the pillared front steps of the church.

The tall double-doors were closed, but there were deep cuts around the hinges and the wood around the handles was blackened as if it had been burned. Chips of ice scattered the front stoop. Someone had attempted to pry the frozen doors open.

And succeeded, apparently.

As Joel pulled on a handle, it gave fairly easily, allowing him to push the door inward with a long, low whine. The dark, dusty interior of the church yawned before them. White and yellow marble that might once have been warm and vibrant now felt cold and lifeless, more a tomb than a place of worship. Marble pillars marched up either side of the church, flanking two lines of pews with covered alcoves on either side. All led to the fore of the church, where gray light from the imposing dome above drifted down to lay across an ornate golden apse and altar, cross still intact.

Tommy and Joel stepped slowly through the open door, pistols held before them at the ready as they allowed their eyes to adjust to the murky interior. To one side, several pews had been wrenched up from the floor and stacked against another door that Tommy assumed had once connected the church to the seminary. A silent look passed between the two brothers and they each nodded at each other, breaking apart and moving slowly towards the alcoves on either side of the main seating area.

Suddenly, Tommy heard the distinct mechanical click of a pistol hammer being drawn back.

He froze, his pulse quickening, but a second later the long, low whine of the door abruptly cut through the echoing church and caused Tommy to spin, pistol aimed at the entrance. A man with a shaved head stood behind the door through Tommy and Joel had just entered, a rifle couched against one shoulder, the barrel trained squarely on Joel. Both brothers had swung round to face the door again, yet the man looked anything but cornered.

"Stop."

The voice came from behind Tommy, farther towards the front of the church. He caught Joel's glance and slowly turned to look towards the altar while Joel kept his sights on the man by the door.

Others began emerging from the alcoves near the altar, another man and two women. Two of them had rifles trained on Tommy, but one of the women, who was moving towards the center aisle between the two rows of pews, held only a pistol. She was young, perhaps mid-twenties, with a long black face and short, curly black hair. Her expression was hard and wary.

"Put your guns down," she said as she slowly started down the center aisle.

"You first," Tommy grunted. His own pistol was still trained squarely on the young woman, and in his peripheral, he could tell Joel had not lowered his own gun.

"If you are who we think you are," the woman continued, "we're not interested in killing you. But we will, if we have to."

Joel snorted, still staring down the barrel of his pistol at the man by the door. "And if we're not who you think we are?"

"Then we'll see. Put your guns down."

For several seconds, nobody moved. The silence was brittle and cold, the only movement the wisps of breath that fogged before open mouths. Tommy could hear Joel's slow, even breathing.

Then Joel shifted. He gently lowered his pistol, glanced at Tommy, and nodded for his brother to do the same. Lips pressing together, Tommy lifted his finger from the trigger and held the gun up, good hand raised in a show of surrender.

"On the ground," the black woman said, nodding towards the carpet at Tommy's feet.

Without a word, Tommy and Joel tossed their guns away, listening as they clattered to the floor with a sharp echo.

None of the strangers lowered their guns, but some of the wariness seemed to fade from their expressions. The bald man by the door grabbed Joel by the shoulder and pushed him towards Tommy. When they stood side by side, the woman nodded towards them.

"What's your names?"

"Joel and Tommy," Joel growled, hands held aloft.

"And where are you coming from?"

"Baltimore. QZ."

The woman nodded again. "Who sent you?"

"Alex Vincent."

She lifted an eyebrow, as if expecting more.

"Alex _Raymond_ Vincent," Joel clarified with a scowl, patience ebbing.

Again she nodded, satisfied. "And I am?"

"Marlene."

"Last name?" she prompted, lifting both brows now.

Tommy interjected, reciting the words Alex had carefully taught them to say. "You're too damn popular for one."

A ghost of a smile tugged at one corner of the woman's mouth as the tension in her posture finally released. She lowered her pistol and gestured for her compatriots to do the same. "Damn straight," she smirked lightly. Holstering her gun, she waved the brothers forward. "Let's see your paperwork."

As the other three Fireflies lowered their firearms, Joel and Tommy reached into their coats and pulled forth their faded and smudged BQZ cards, which they handed to Marlene as they neared her. She studied the cards for several seconds, eyes flicking over the photos and personal information contained therein. Finally, she nodded with apparent approval.

"We'll hold onto these," she said, pocketing them. "Got a man in Boston who can use the photos to make your new paperwork for the Boston QZ." She paused, then gestured towards Tommy. "It's nearly your birthday, you know."

"Yeah, I know," Tommy shrugged, still cautious.

"You keep track of the dates?" She sounded mildly surprised.

Again Tommy shrugged. "Habit I picked up from an old friend."

"Fair enough," Marlene nodded. Then, as if remembering herself, she gestured around to her colleagues. "Jon and Callie," she said, pointing to the two Fireflies behind her. "And that's Warren on the door. You know who I am."

She stooped and retrieved Tommy's pistol from the floor, which she handed back to him.

"Welcome to the Fireflies, gentlemen."

* * *

><p><em>January 7, 2019, Late Morning<em>

"So where's the accent from?"

Tommy glanced in question at Marlene as she joined him.

"Your accent," she repeated. "Where's it from?"

"I don't have one," he replied, smirking.

The Firefly smiled lightly and shook her head. They walked side by side, hands dug into their pockets to protect against the biting cold that swept across the little two-lane highway on which they were walking. Tommy's sling was buried within the bulky winter coat he had brought with him from the Baltimore dry-cleaning store.

Overhead, the sky was overcast, and the snow had melted enough to leave the roadway wet but clear, with large drifts of snow still gathered against buildings. They were entering what looked like the edge of a small town, passing low brick buildings surrounded by wide, empty parking lots. Signs advertising upcoming stores called out with garish color: Frank's Crab Shack, Iron Lotus, Inked In Tattoo, Steve's Auto Repair.

Ahead, two of the Fireflies, Warren and Callie, walked with rifles held loosely at the ready. Behind, Joel and the last Firefly, Jon, walked in silence.

"Okay," Marlene tried again. "Where are _you_ from, then?"

Tommy shot her a half-smile, shaking his head. "The land of beef and brawny men."

She regarded him sidelong for a second, then snorted. "Texas, I take it?"

"Ain't you ever heard a _Beef, It's What's for Dinner_ commercial?"

"Maybe, but you southerners all sound the same."

"Hey now," Tommy said, mockingly chiding. "Don't make me call you a dirty Yankee."

Marlene smiled again. Joel and Tommy had spoken little with their travelling companions since joining them at the old seminary, but these long hours on the road were at least conducive to small talk, which Tommy found a welcome relief from Joel's brooding silence.

"So what brought you two so far north?" Marlene asked after a second. She had a way of cocking her head, Tommy had noticed, that made him suspect that she was always listening for information. Friend or foe, significant or not, every piece of information was catalogued and analyzed. Tommy knew it made Joel suspicious, thus his brother's persistent silence, but Tommy did not find it entirely discomfiting. He suspected it was less a part of her duty as a Firefly and more simply her nature.

He shrugged at her inquiry. "Buncha different shit. Started out in a Texas zone, little place just outside of Austin. But it didn't last. Maybe a year? After that, we ended up joinin' up with a group on the road. Then we just kinda…kept movin'."

"And Baltimore?" Marlene said. "How'd you end up there?"

"Not our choice. Got nabbed by a FEDRA supply run. Dragged into Baltimore 'cause the zone was lookin' for manpower, for gravediggers."

She nodded. "Your whole group?"

"Nah," Tommy said, pausing and shaking his head. "Nah, we'd, uh…we'd split from them before that."

Marlene glanced sidelong at him, but asked nothing further.

Tommy cleared his throat. "Anyway, what's takin' you all up to Boston?"

"Back to Boston, actually," she answered. "We're all from there originally."

"Even before all this?"

"At least since it started, yeah. I was Boston born and bred. Ended up in the zone pretty much from the beginning."

"So why were you in Richmond?"

"Same reason Alex is in Baltimore," Marlene replied, shrugging. "Just trying to get a foothold further south before we push out west anymore."

From the vagueness of her reply, Tommy guessed she would say little more on Firefly business. So he simply nodded. "Well, at least you get to go home for awhile."

A ghost of a smile played across her lips and she gave a small nod. For a second, her gaze became distant, focusing instead on a couple of square brick buildings they were nearing on the right side of the highway. One had a plastic red and white awning over one side and the words _Frank's Crab Shack_ painted in jaunty red lettering above. The other was an old automotive repair shop, several of its white garage doors thrown open.

Suddenly Marlene sighed lightly and looked up at the sky.

"My best friend's pregnant," she said. "Due in March."

Tommy lifted a brow, glancing sidelong as the Firefly. "No shit? Well, congratulations."

She nodded slowly. "Yeah, I guess so. That's why we're going back, why I am at least. Dad's never been in the picture, so I told her I'd be there when the time came."

After a second, the melancholy in her expression faded and the lines around her eyes hardened again. Tommy had noted before how easily she slipped into that grim demeanor.

"You know anyone else from before all this?" she asked abruptly, staring ahead.

Tommy shook his head. "Just Joel."

"It's easier that way, I think," she nodded. "Not necessarily better, but easier. To forget what we used to have."

Tommy repressed the urge to snort, but he couldn't help a glance back at his brother. Joel was scanning the highway to their left, ever watchful, and did not notice Tommy's look. "You sound like Joel," Tommy said quietly, turning back to Marlene. "Seems like that's all anybody ever wants to do is forget. That friend who taught me to keep track of the dates? Said it was so we don't forget. We forget what we were, then we lose track of what we're aimin' for."

"No," Marlene said emphatically, again letting her gaze sweep across the buildings to the right. "I never lose track of what I'm aiming for. Some people, especially now, they're happy just wandering through life. I can't do that." She looked back to Tommy, expression crisp and focused. "Forgetting the way things used to be, that lets me do things I would never have done then, things that _have_ to be done. But remembering who I am, that's so I do those things for the right reasons."

It felt vaguely like a recruiting spiel and Tommy suddenly had the sense that she had practiced the words before, or something like them, during her time in Richmond. Acutely aware that Joel was trailing only a handful of feet behind them, however, Tommy did not reply. He only nodded slowly, chewing on Marlene's words in silence.

As they neared _Frank's Crab Shack_, Tommy found himself staring blankly at the red and white awning, unable to decide what he thought of Marlene's philosophy, unwilling to consider it with much earnest while his promise to Joel lingered at the front of his mind.

Suddenly, a door on the side of the restaurant opened and a man stepped out.

"Down!" Marlene hissed without hesitation.

All six of their party hit the ground so fast that Tommy had to bury his cry of pain into the asphalt as he jerked his bandaged arm violently. The ground was almost entirely flat and they were exposed in the open of the country highway, but a small strip of grass separated the roadway from the parking lot in which the restaurant stood. It had just enough of a rise to it to conceal their party if they lay completely flat.

Ahead of him, Tommy watched the Fireflies Warren and Callie scramble forward on their stomachs, risking quick lifts of their heads to get a better view of the man they had seen exiting the restaurant. Tommy did likewise.

There were more than one of them now. The man had been joined by three, no four, others. All wore blue uniforms and helmets and carried automatic rifles.

"Shiiit," Tommy heard Joel mutter, feet from him. His brother crawled towards Marlene, whispering, "FEDRA. They ain't seen us."

"Good," Marlene whispered back. She twisted, looking forward to Warren and Callie. She held up her hand, pointing towards the soldiers, then made a series of gestures that Tommy did not understand, but to which Warren and Callie nodded. A second later, she turned around again and made a similar set of gestures back towards Jon.

"Hey, what the hell does that mean?" Tommy hissed urgently as Marlene started to scramble forward without a word to either Joel or himself. "What do you want Joel and me doin'?"

"Stay here," she said sharply, before she started to wriggle up onto the strip of grass dividing the highway from the restaurant parking lot.

Tommy glanced back at Joel and both brothers shared an indignant look that plainly stated that, no, they would not be staying put.

The soldiers were talking, their voices carrying lightly over the empty parking lot as if they had just finished a filling crab dinner, paid their tab, and bid the good-looking waitress good-bye. They were walking casually, rifles slung over their shoulders as they started towards the highway, headed in a direction that put their backs to the Fireflies who lay in wait.

Slowly, steadily, Marlene and her comrades continued to wriggle their way forward, closer and closer to the lip of the green strip, where they would have an uninhibited view as their targets moved increasingly into the open.

Suddenly, Warren shifted where he lay on his stomach. The bald man brought his rifle up and couched it against his shoulder, cradling the barrel with an arm braced against the tall grass. He sighted along the barrel. Marlene leaned into him, her lips moved, and a second later, Warren fired.

One of the soldiers jerked sharply, hands thrown out as if having been struck in the back as he hit the ground. The others immediately began casting about for cover, but a salvo of shots quickly followed Warren's as the other Fireflies attempted to make quick work of their quarries. Caught utterly exposed, the soldiers instead dove for the asphalt rather than risk a sprint back to _Frank's Crab Shack_ across 50 feet of open ground.

"Jon, light them up!" Marlene suddenly yelled above the gunfire.

Although he couldn't be a day over twenty, Jon moved with the speed and precision of a trained soldier. His sandy-colored hair flew wildly as his hand dove into his pack and pulled out a brown beer bottle with a rag stuffed into the top. A second later, a flicker of orange, and the rag was suddenly aflame, blazing bright as Jon pushed himself to his knees.

As the young Firefly draw the Molotov cocktail back to throw, several of the soldiers swung their assault rifles to bear, taking advantage of the fact that Jon was no longer pressed safely against the ground. In an instant, the other Fireflies had opened with a fresh hail of gunfire, bullets cracking across the highway.

Together, both Joel and Tommy rose to their knees and opened fire. Their pistols would be wildly inaccurate at this range, but they had the desired effect. The soldiers buried their faces into the asphalt in the hope that their helmets would protect against the salvo now being rained down upon them.

Their helmets would not protect them against what was to come, however.

With his comrades providing covering fire, Jon lobbed the Molotov cocktail across the open space between the Fireflies and soldiers. The flaming bottle arced long and steady over the highway, almost elegant as it silently fell towards the huddled soldiers.

The crash of breaking glass was followed instantly by the scream of burning soldiers. They attempted to roll away from the flames, but the alcohol-propelled fire clung stubbornly to their uniforms, spitting to life and engulfing them even as they rolled and cried in desperation. Several attempted to stand and flee, but Tommy and Joel and the Fireflies immediately fired on any movement that emerged from the flames.

In a handful of seconds, it was over.

At first, no one moved, rifles and pistols still trained warily on the huddle of burning bodies smoldering at the center of the highway. Then, like a whip, Marlene's voice snapped them into action.

"Okay, up," she commanded. "Up, up, up! Let's go!"

The Fireflies pushed themselves to their feet as a single unit, grabbing packs and rifles and jogging towards the bodies of the dead soldiers. Tommy felt Joel's hand under his arm as his brother helped him to his feet.

"All right?" Joel muttered.

"Never better."

Joel nodded, dusting off the front of Tommy's coat. "Then let's move."

By the time they joined the Fireflies, Marlene and her people had already begun stripping the dead soldiers of guns and ammunition. The nylon on their flak jackets had either burned or melted away, making the vests unusable. Over all, the sickly-sweet stench of crisp burnt flesh soaked the air.

Marlene made a face as she pulled a blackened canteen off one of the soldiers. "God, I can never stand the smell."

"I hate to say it," Tommy said as he holstered his pistol, "but you do get used to it."

She glanced up in question.

"Gravediggers, remember?" he added.

Recognition dawned, though she still shook her head. "If you say so."

Joel was shoving his pistol into his back waistband as he came up behind Tommy, but the lines around his eyes and mouth were hard. He stared down at Marlene.

"We've also spent more time on the outside than in a zone," he growled. "So where the hell do you get off actin' like we're a coupla zoners needin' protectin'?"

Marlene's expression darkened and she shot Joel a glare before slowly standing. Tommy noticed the other Fireflies become very quiet as they worked to strip the dead soldiers.

"I don't know you," Marlene said sharply after a second, staring straight at Joel. "I met you less than a week ago and I've never seen you in action until today. I'm not putting my life or the lives of my people in your hands."

"Well, me neither, lady," Joel spat. "Shit comes down, I'm not just gonna sit back and let you handle it. I don't know you either. I ain't just stayin' put when it's my life or his on the line." He nodded at Tommy. "You work with that or you get outta our way."

Marlene's lips parted and she shook her head, her jaw jutting out in the face of Joel's challenge. She glanced at Tommy.

"Fine," she said finally, looking back to Joel and snorting lightly. "Give me that." She waved towards Callie, who tossed her one of the assault rifles. Marlene held it out to Joel. "Think you can handle that?"

"I reckon," he muttered, still glaring at her as he accepted the gun.

"Good." She regarded Joel for a second longer, the lines around her mouth hard and unforgiving. But she shook her head a final time, as if he were not worth her time, then gestured to the other Fireflies. "Come on. Wrap it up, people. Time to go."

* * *

><p><em>February 26, 2019, Late Morning<em>

"There. You see it?"

Tommy squinted, then cupped a hand over his left eye so he could only see out of the right. An ugly brown building with flat black windows hulked in the distance, behind the squat brick body and white spire of an old church. The thoroughfare on which they stood was long and straight, giving them an uninhibited view all the way to the base of the brown skyscraper. And if Tommy squinted very hard, he could see, just at the base of it, what looked like a black box on stilts.

"Guard tower?" he said, looking back at Marlene.

She nodded. "Yeah. That's the edge of the wall."

"You're right downtown, aren't you?" Joel said, drawing level with both of them and shielding his eyes against the overcast sky.

"Almost," Marlene replied. "They bombed most of downtown proper a few months after everything started, but the wall comes out past the federal building and the City Hall Plaza. Most civilian housing in farther back in the North End, towards the docks."

Tommy dropped his hand from his eye and gave her a blank look, lifting his brows. "I ain't ever been to Boston, you know. That whole explanation means just about nothin' to me."

She smiled briefly. "You'll figure it out eventually. Come on."

A large park paralleled the left side of the road on which they were walking. According to Marlene, this had made it one of the few roads in the city to have been left unscathed by FEDRA's desperate attempt to bomb the infection into remission. Bare trees with gray branches stood like cold, lonely sentinels over grounds filled with dead grass and years of accumulated leaves. The city itself felt even colder, filled only with corridors of empty buildings and broken glass, sidewalks and roadways split by frost and overgrown roots, or else reduced to utter rubble by the force of the mayhem the military had unleashed upon it.

Their party remained close to the buildings, never venturing far from their shadow. Military patrols were common in this area, and infected even more so. The more they could conceal their presence, the better.

"How do you figure on gettin' in?" Joel muttered, hugging his rifle to his chest as he followed Marlene. Tommy trailed behind him.

"We've got contacts," she replied.

"Military or gangs?" Tommy asked.

"Neither. Boston's not like Baltimore. We've got gangs, but they mostly stick to the zone. FEDRA patrols outside the wall pretty regularly since the zone is so close to downtown, so the gangs have learned better than to have a big presence outside the walls."

Joel frowned. "So how do you get in? There's no smugglers here?"

"No, there are," Marlene answered, warily scanning the windows of a dusty sandwich shop as they passed. "But they're…kind of a collective, I guess. Most of them are independent, but they pay into a single pot to use and maintain their tunnels. And we contract with one of them to get us in or out. He's not a Firefly, but he's good at what he does."

They were skirting along the edge of a row of glass storefronts, drawing closer to the brick church with the white spire. Yet as they clung to the base of the buildings, Tommy found himself listening carefully, lips slowly parting.

"Do you hear somethin'?" he finally said, pausing. Sound seemed to echo through the empty city. "I feel like I hear somethin'."

The others came to a slow halt as well, each straining to hear whatever it was Tommy had thought he had heard. For several seconds, no one spoke.

"It's an engine," Joel said at last. "Like a big diesel engine. You hear it?"

Marlene was nodding, her expression all business. "It's military. We're close."

"To what?"

"FEDRA's got checkpoints outside the walls," she said. "That's where we contact our smuggler."

"At a _military_ checkpoint?" Joel said, incredulous.

"They're paid off," she returned, tone growing prickly. "We've got a safe house we can set up in, I'll send one of my guys to make contact, and then we wait for dark."

Joel shot Tommy a look. "Fine," he grunted, shaking his head. "Where's this safe house then?"

Marlene pointed in the direction away from the park. "Couple blocks east of here."

"And there's a checkpoint nearby?" Tommy said.

She nodded. "It's the one you can hear. Checkpoint Charlie."

* * *

><p><em>Night<em>

Lights shown in the distance, reflecting dimly off the sides of low brick office buildings and glass store fronts. Tommy felt oddly safe, cloaked in darkness as they were, the inky black outside and the inky black inside creating a strange sense of stillness that let him briefly forget the madness of the world they inhabited. This was one part of the road he had indeed missed in Baltimore. Here, on the outside, without the rumble of military trucks or the muffled sound of hundreds of people crammed into a single street, Tommy could imagine, just for a second, that the world was normal again.

The sound of cloth shifting behind him caused Tommy to turn. He recognized Joel's outline in the darkness.

"Anythin'?" Joel rumbled, joining Tommy at the window.

"No," Tommy replied. He looked back down the street again to where lights were visible several blocks away.

Joel sighed, but said nothing more as he leaned against the glass, likewise staring absently in the direction of the distant Checkpoint Charlie. The interior of the office building in which they stood was chill, but it provided some shelter from the biting cold outside. Marlene and two of her people sat quietly lounging on a couple of sofas at the back of the office. Callie was somewhere below, keeping watch at the entrance to the shoe shop beneath them.

"How's the eye?" Joel asked after a second, more as if to fill the time than anything.

Tommy shook his head and shot his brother a rueful look. "Same as it was this mornin'. Same as it was yesterday mornin', and the mornin' before that." He sighed. "Think it's probably time we get used to the idea I ain't ever gonna see clear outta this eye again."

Joel's gaze shifted to the floor and he nodded. "Sorry," he murmured.

"Ain't your fault," Tommy shrugged.

"Listen, Tommy, I been thinkin'." Joel leaned in closer and his voice dropped to a low rumble. "Once we get in there and they get us our paperwork, it's about time we split from these people."

"I know, I know."

"No, it ain't just you and them and gettin' close or whatever." He pressed his lips together. "I been thinkin' about Alex and Baltimore. Might just be a matter of time 'til Alex finds out why Breslen came straight to us, that night at the church. Once he does, he's gonna know we were helpin' Breslen. I want us well clear of the Fireflies when that news hits Boston."

Tommy paused to consider his brother's words, then slowly started nodding, his stomach growing cold.

"You got it?" Joel asked.

"Yeah," Tommy murmured. "Yeah, I got it."

They lapsed into silence again, each gently contemplating their own thoughts in the near perfect darkness of the Fireflies' safe house. Minutes passed. Then, quite abruptly, a flashlight beam flickered across the street below, illuminating a single set of boots crossing the narrow strip of asphalt and headed for the shoe store on the ground floor.

"Marlene!" Tommy whispered loudly, voice echoing through the blanketing darkness of the office space.

Footsteps thumped across the flour and the Firefly leader appeared a second later, eyes wide and questioning. Jon and Warren followed close behind.

"Someone comin' in below," Tommy said quietly.

She nodded, then waved them forward.

The entrance to the office area was through a single glass door, which opened into a small lounge area with a receptionist's desk. Slanted, silver lettering above the desk read _Kosik Janson International_. At Marlene's signal, Jon and Warren positioned themselves behind the desk, while Joel and Tommy took up stations beside several cubicles a few feet away. Marlene remained by the door, angling her head to see down the hallway beyond.

Joel checked the safety on the rifle he held and Tommy pulled his pistol from his belt. A few seconds later, they heard footsteps in the hallway outside. Flashlights flickered across the carpet through the glass door.

Then, a set of knuckles rapped against the door.

"Marlene?"

Those gathered within relaxed immediately. It was Callie. Lowering her gun, Marlene pulled open the door.

"Hey," she greeted, tone relieved but businesslike. "He's with you?"

Callie stepped into the office space, nodding. Behind her followed the black outline of a man, built tall and heavy, wearing a stocking cap and what looked like a leather vest. Tommy could not make out much more of him in the darkness, but the man wore a beard and the light from Callie's flashlight glinted off the end of a black rifle in his hand.

"How you doin', darlin'?" the man said, wrapping an arm around Marlene. He had a deep southern drawl.

Tommy's brows drew together as something pricked at the back of his mind.

Marlene returned the hug, nodding. "I'm all right." It was a warm gesture, but professional. "You ready to go?"

"Always," the man returned. "A'right then. Let's see what we got."

Tommy's lips parted and he shot a look at his brother, but Joel was not looking at him. Joel was fingering the rifle he held and staring steadily, warily at their newly-arrived guest.

The smuggler flicked on a small mag light he held and pointed it around the reception area, nodding at each of the Fireflies in turn. But when the light reached Joel and Tommy, the smuggler paused. All was quiet for a second.

"Well, goddamn," the smuggler finally muttered.

Joel's jaw tightened as he stared at the light. Keeping very still, he nodded once.

"Hey, Troy."

* * *

><p><strong>As always, thanks for reading and reviewing! I can't thank enough those of you who take the time to review every chapter and tell me what you liked or found interesting about it. I end up having some really interesting PM conversations with many of you that I not only find fascinating, but really help me improve my writing and often help shape the direction of this story. So thank you and thank you again!<strong>

**Next update...I don't think I can say much about given the cliff-hanger this chapter ends on, so...tune in next time for _things that happen in Boston!_**


	19. Chapter 19 - Area Five

Chapter 19

_February 27, 2019, Early Morning_

Dirt and gravel rock slid beneath Tommy's elbows and stomach as he crawled forward, slowly pushing himself further and further into the dark, painfully cramped tunnel. The walls were deeply packed earth held up with erratically spaced planks of wood, but loose grit and gravel spilled to the ground every time Tommy or one of the others brushed one of the sides. There was no light down here. Instead, Tommy clenched a small metal flashlight between his teeth, huffing and grunting around it as he dragged himself forward, awkwardly pushing his pack in front of him.

There was also very little oxygen this deep beneath ground. Warren, Callie, and Jon had already gone through. Now, Tommy's flashlight rippled across the lug soles of Joel's boots ahead of him, while he could hear Marlene's heavy breathing behind. Every now and again, Tommy caught a glance of the faded flaming cutlass that sprawled across the back of Troy's leather vest, where the former biker crawled ahead of Joel. Tommy tried very hard not to think about how quickly they might be consuming the limited oxygen contained in the tunnel.

If ever there was a time to become claustrophobic, now was not it.

Tommy fought the urge to sneeze as Joel's boot accidentally kicked back a spray of dry dirt into his face. Instead, Tommy dropped his head and let the flashlight in his mouth fall to the ground as he sputtered out a cough and rubbed his nose with the back of a dirty glove.

"Jesus Christ," he whispered, spitting.

Marlene thumped the bottom of his boot from behind.

"For Christ's sake, please don't stop," she said, her voice muffled by the cramped quarters.

Tommy put the flashlight between his teeth and started sliding forward again.

Troy had said almost nothing to them since his initial surprised recognition at the Fireflies' safe house near Checkpoint Charlie. As he had been nearly two years ago, Troy was a man of few words. He had looked Tommy and Joel over for a moment before promptly ignoring them and waving the Fireflies to follow him instead. Despite Marlene's suspicious prying, neither Troy nor Joel and Tommy had said a word to her.

Now, as Tommy caught glimpses of Troy's back, he felt a creeping sense of apprehension. Had Troy considered their leaving a betrayal? Would he really bring them safely into Boston? And where was the rest of their once-family?

Ahead, Tommy suddenly heard movement and the sound of stomping. He angled his flashlight up and felt, rather than saw, that the tunnel seemed to widen into a yawning blackness just ahead of Joel. The air shifted, becoming colder and less stale. Relief rushed through Tommy.

Joel's boots abruptly pulled forward as he stood. A second later, he stooped and hooked a hand under Tommy's elbow, helping Tommy come to his feet as they both emerged from the close confines of the smugglers tunnel. Turning, Tommy offered Marlene a hand as she too emerged. For several long moments, all three stood catching their breath, drinking in the wonderfully fresh air and open space of the darkness in which they stood.

There was no natural light, but Tommy shone his flashlight around what looked to be an old cellar or basement. Under foot was cement, while boxes and other discarded paraphernalia littered the edges and corners of the room.

"Put these on," Troy suddenly grunted, materializing from the darkness and throwing black hoods at each of his wards.

Joel caught his and shot Tommy a dubious look. Rubbing the black cloth between his fingers, Tommy stared up at Troy, his jaw set, expression suspicious. His eyes flickered to the black rifle in Troy's hand.

"Execution hood?" Tommy muttered warily.

Troy paused, cocking his head to one side slightly as he regarded Tommy. A half-smirk tugged at one side of his face.

"I ain't gonna kill ya," he said simply after a second, without elaboration.

"It's so we don't know where the entrance is," Marlene interjected, though her eyes were moving between Troy and the brothers with obvious interest. "Every smuggler in Boston uses hoods. Makes it so only people who know where the tunnels are can use them."

"Mmhmm," Joel grunted.

Rolling her eyes, Marlene pulled her hood over her head without a word. Sharing a final apprehensive glance, Tommy and Joel followed suit a second later.

"Let's go. Hold onto somethin'," Troy grumbled.

Tommy reached out and took hold of what felt like a loose strap on the back of Joel's backpack. He felt a tug on his own pack as Marlene did the same behind him. Joel jerked forward suddenly and Tommy quickly followed, tightening his grip on his brother's pack so as not to lose him.

"Stairs, goin' up," Troy muttered after Tommy had taken a handful of blind steps. A moment later, he felt the tip of his boot run up against the first step. Then he started to climb.

And so it went for several minutes, all three of them awkwardly shuffling one after another, holding onto packs as Troy grunted out warnings to them about impending obstacles. They reached the top of the stairs and Tommy could feel the air grow colder, more open. Several times he felt his shoulder brush against a wall or door frame. Beneath his feet, the ground turned from cement to wood, to harder wood, to something firm and solid, like asphalt or cement again. At times the ground became uneven as well, as if they were treading across cobblestones or something of the like. The air shifted again, as if they were outside, but the black cloth of the hood remained dark, suggesting the sun had not yet risen.

Finally, Tommy heard a screech of metal, like a door being opened, and they were ushered into a space where the sound became noticeably muted and confined. A second later Tommy sucked in a sharp breath as the hood was whipped off his head and he found himself blinking up at Troy. They stood in a dimly-lit store, beside a counter with an old-fashioned cash register perched on one corner. Through a glass wall, Tommy could see what looked like the dark interior of a large shopping mall beyond.

"See? Ain't dead yet," Troy rumbled sardonically, wadding up the black hood he had pulled off Tommy's head and tossing it beside the cash register. Tommy watched the bear of a man warily, but Troy ignored him and turned away.

Warren, Callie, and Jon emerged from the back of the store.

"Survived another walk through paradise, eh boss?" Warren grinned at Marlene.

She shot him an unamused look. "You mean a crawl through hell?"

"Go on, keep sayin' mean things 'bout my tunnels," Troy said, smirking. "See if I let you use 'em again."

Marlene smiled wearily at him. "Thanks, Troy."

He nodded in return. "Anytime, sweetheart. Welcome home." He waved vaguely towards the mall outside the store. "You got probably 45 minutes 'til sunrise. Coop's still set up in that basement in Area Five, if you're lookin' for paperwork, for them." He glanced pointedly at Joel and Tommy without actually looking at them.

Marlene paused and pursed her lips. "Is that going to bother you?" she asked after a second. "Having them here? I don't know what kind of history there is between you all."

Troy snorted and tipped his head slightly, shaking it. He rarely appeared fazed, his face rough from years of hard living and his eyes heavy, almost lazy. He reached into a pocket and pulled forth a toothpick, which he absently started chewing on.

"I can take care of myself, sweetheart," he rumbled. "You don't gotta worry 'bout me." He smirked, disdainfully nodding towards Joel and Tommy. "I don't care what you do with them."

"Okay then," she said slowly. "Guess we'll be seeing you then."

"Might be," Troy shrugged. He picked up his black rifle and slung it over a shoulder, nodded, then turned and disappeared into the inky darkness of the shopping mall.

Marlene watched him go, but Tommy noticed her eyes flicker back to him and Joel more than once. Always silently filing away every shred of useful information.

"Come on, you two," she said finally. "Let's go get you your papers."

* * *

><p><em>Late Morning<em>

The broken watch rattled lightly in Joel's hands as he turned it over once, then twice, absently using the nail of his thumb to dig out caked dirt and dust from the crevices of the timepiece. Its crystal face remained a spider web of fine cracks, but that did not stop Joel from wetting his thumb and wiping it across the glass, ignoring the sharp places where the edges of the crystal had been chipped away.

He sat atop a rusting washing machine, back against the wall. A string of bare lightbulbs in protective cages had been tacked to the ceiling of the damp basement, and their spare yellow light threw muddy shadows across Joel's face. Even from a distance, it was not difficult to see the lines around his eyes or the hollow that had grown in his cheeks.

Tommy watched his brother from across the room. The metal chair on which he was seated wobbled beneath him as he waited, arms and legs crossed, fighting the urge to nod off after their long, sleepless night.

"Why's he keep that watch if it's broken?" Marlene murmured quietly. She sat beside Tommy, back against the wall, also watching Joel.

Tommy blinked sleepily and looked at her, then glanced back at his brother. But Tommy only shook his head once, pressing his lips together and giving no reply.

Marlene sighed, rubbing her face. "Are you two going to be okay? With whatever there is between you and Troy, I mean?"

He opened his mouth, but had no immediate answer. Instead, he drew a deep breath and slowly released it, finally shaking his head with a frown. "I dunno. Probably gonna be up to Troy, honest."

"Why? Is it something you did to him?"

Tommy pursed his lips. "Wasn't meant that way, but yeah…that's probably how he sees it."

"I wish you'd let me help you," Marlene said, tone vaguely chiding as she glanced sidelong at Tommy. "We can find you both a place to live until you get your feet. Maybe even get you some work. We know people here. You don't. Soon as we're done here, you walk out that door into a zone you don't know a thing about, with nowhere to go."

Tommy smiled and nodded, but there was irony in his expression. A bitter, resigned sort of irony. He knew the truth of Marlene's words. Yet it was to Joel that Tommy's gaze wandered.

"We'll be fine," he murmured, looking back to the Firefly after a second. "We done all right on our own for a lotta years. Just…probably better that way."

Marlene shook her head and lapsed into silence. Yawning, Tommy let his eyes flicker to the far corner of the dank cement basement, where the click and tap of a keyboard formed a faint background noise that echoed through the bare space. A young man in a Boston Red Sox ball cap sat at a desk, face illuminated by the glow of the laptop screen at which he was staring. Cooper, Marlene had called him. He had struck Tommy as mildly antisocial, but it was not the young man's social skills that Tommy cared about. Cooper was one of Boston's underground forgers, possessing the technical know-how to rebuild a laptop and illegally patch into FEDRA's electrical network in order to print them fake QZ visas and papers. That was what mattered, even if it was vaguely disconcerting to hear the tap of the keyboard as they sat in the glow of electric lights.

"Well," Marlene muttered, half smiling. "I don't suppose I can finally convince you to just join us instead?"

Tommy smiled wearily again, once more shaking his head. "Sorry. No."

She shrugged and returned the smile. "I spent two months trying to convince you on the road. I didn't really expect to change your mind now."

"We just…" Tommy sighed, absently rubbing at one of the dirt lines that ran across his palm. "We just been makin' it work on our own for a long time. Tried to do it different in Baltimore for a while, but…it didn't work. Anyway, Joel won't come near the Fireflies again, and I can't just leave him." He shook his head and looked up at his brother, who was still delicately cleaning the broken watch, unaware of the eyes watching him from across the room. Tommy felt the familiar discomfort prick his stomach. "Besides, I promised someone I'd look after him."

"Seems like he tends to think he's looking after you most of the time," Marlene said, lifting a brow.

"Yeah," Tommy smiled sleepily. "Big brother knows best."

Again they lapsed into a comfortable silence. After a second, however, Marlene reached into her coat and pulled out a pencil and small notebook. She tore a page from the notebook.

"Listen," she said as she started to write something on the torn page. "Joel can be kind of an ass, but—"

"—Figured that out on your own?" Tommy interjected, half grinning.

She glanced up and smiled before shaking her head and looking back to what she was writing. "_But_," she resumed, "you're all right. If you ever change your mind, or you ever need anything, you go to this address." She folded the paper and handed it to Tommy. "Tell them who you are, tell them you're looking for me. Okay?"

Tommy flipped open the folded page and read _170 Salem St_. He nodded, murmuring, "Okay."

"Good," Marlene said. She regarded Tommy for a second, then nodded and leaned forward, hands on her knees. "And now, I need to hit the road. About time I report into my superiors. Warren will have found them by now and told them we've arrived. Coop should be done here soon. I've already paid him."

She stood and Tommy followed suit. Together, they shook hands.

"Thanks for everythin'," Tommy rumbled. "You take care of yourself."

"And you," she returned, then paused, her lips pressing together. "Be careful," she said finally. "I know you've been in Baltimore, but every zone's different. Boston…has its own set of dangers."

Tommy nodded. "We'll be fine."

"Yeah, I know." Marlene smiled, but already her demeanor was retreating back to a place of cool detachment. She started towards the steps that led up and out of the basement, lifting a hand in farewell to Joel as she turned.

Joel looked up from his watch and returned the gesture with a single expressionless nod, watching the Firefly's back as she mounted the stairs to the floor above. Once Marlene's boots had disappeared from view, Joel's gaze dropped back to Tommy.

For a second, Joel's mouth twitched as if he were about to say something, but he never did. Instead, Tommy met his brother's look from across the room, held it briefly, then turned and sank back into his wobbly metal chair.

* * *

><p>Boston felt bleak, broken and feral.<p>

It was narrow streets with splintered asphalt and hulking brick buildings that wept rust from the iron fire escapes clinging to their sides. Shattered windows and occasional doorways blackened by smoke. Glass and pieces of brick that crunched under foot. Sidewalks lined with dead cars squatting atop rotted tires, newspapers plastered across the windows from within as the homeless converted them into cold, metal berths.

As Joel and Tommy ducked out from the low door of Cooper's apartment building, Tommy found himself warily scanning the flapping tarps that dotted the cramped street in both directions. Blue, green, and gray, the tarps had been erected between cars and the sides of buildings, or propped up with pieces of wood and old scaffolding. People wrapped in tattered blankets and stained coats sat atop crates and plastic lawn chairs, huddled around drum fires in an attempt to warm their raw hands and faces. And over all, the air was thick with the smell of smoke and refuse.

In Baltimore, the neighborhoods had felt sprawling and overcrowded, but FEDRA had diligently kept the streets clear in order to make way for military vehicles. Boston was a postage stamp by comparison. Marlene said the main roads were open, but the side streets and alleyways through which she had woven to take them to Cooper's were clogged with a myriad of makeshift shelters like those Tommy now watched with narrow eyes.

These were Boston's slums.

"Well, now what?" Tommy muttered, glancing back at Joel as his brother pulled the door shut behind them.

Joel was pocketing his new visa and papers, eyes sweeping across the blank stares and hollow faces that had turned in their direction as they reemerged onto the street. "Now," he said quietly, "we figure out who pays in this town. And what kinda work they want done."

"Where we sleepin'?"

"We'll figure that out later," Joel replied, shaking his head. "These papers get us through checkpoints. They don't get us ration cards. We wanna eat, we find work first."

Tommy nodded. He stuck his hands into his coat pockets, noting the press of the pistol he had tucked into his rear waistband, concealed from sight. That and the pocketknife that was clipped to his belt were his only weapons; Marlene had reclaimed for the Fireflies the rifles they had used on the road to Boston.

"What about Troy?" Tommy said, finally asking the question they had both avoided since their former friend had deposited them inside the zone earlier that morning.

Joel opened his mouth, sighed, then shook his head. "I dunno," he said. "I wasn't expectin' that, him bein' here…Might be trouble for us. Might be nothin'."

Tommy pressed his lips together, looking at his brother.

"We just…be careful," Joel continued. "Figure it out as we go, okay?"

Tommy nodded.

For a second, Joel's expression became oddly muted, as if he were considering saying something more, but instead he stepped out from the shadow of the building they had just left and looked up and down the street in both directions. "For now," he said, "we get a measure on this place. Do some walkin', get our bearings, see who's lookin' for hired help."

"All right," Tommy replied. He could feel himself growing heavy with the lack of sleep, but stopped himself from sighing. It did no good now thinking about how much better off they might be had they accepted Marlene's offer to help them get their feet.

They left Cooper's building behind and began to weave amidst the tarp city that comprised the slums. The buildings that loomed above them were four and five stories tall, each likely packed with twice as many people as had sprawled out into the streets. The faces that turned to glance dully at the brothers as they passed were a strange mix, either blank stares or expressions filled with hunger, an uncomfortable cross between listless and wild.

Perhaps other areas of the zone were in better order, but here at least it would not be difficult to blend in among the vagrant multitudes. So unlike Baltimore, no one here seemed to care much about a new set of faces. If the military ever set foot in this place, it was not obvious.

Formally, it was called Area Five.

Ducking beneath a low hanging tarp, Tommy and Joel emerged into a once-vacant lot that now looked to house a market of sorts as the cramped scatter of beds and drum fires gave way to stalls propped up on crates and boxes. There were perhaps a dozen vendors, each watching passersby with hawkish eyes. Piles of old scavenged clothing were stacked beside jars of home-brewed moonshine, while the tantalizing smell of roast pigeon made Tommy's stomach growl. The place was busy, but in an unhurried sort of way, as if there were nothing to do and nowhere to go that demanded shopping with haste.

"Hey," Joel said abruptly, causing Tommy to pause and look back at his brother. Joel was wearing the same muted expression, his demeanor at once grim and yet vaguely uncomfortable.

"Listen, I wanna say somethin'," he muttered, crossing his arms as they lingered on the edge of the market, ignoring those coming and going around them. "You done all right by your promise, and I just wanted to say."

Tommy blinked and opened his mouth in question, not quite understanding.

"I know Marlene's been pushin' you, the last two months," Joel continued, glancing at the ground. "To join the Fireflies? And you been keepin' your promise and I just, you know…I figured it ain't been easy."

Tommy felt his chest tighten as he stared at his brother. Joel's expression remained hard and grim, but a ghost of something else lingered there. Was it fear? Gratitude? Maybe both. Suddenly unsure what to say, Tommy dropped his gaze, mouth still open, as a surprised smile slowly crept across his face.

Finally, he shook his head and snorted lightly, looking up again. "Probably about as easy as you sayin' thanks?"

Joel's lips twitched, then he too snorted, nodding with a wry half-smile. "Yeah, probably."

For a second, they both stood there, simply shaking their heads at each other. Tommy felt a heady rush of emotions run from his spine to the base of his skull. Annie's warning came tumbling back to him and guilt pricked his stomach at the thought that his argument with Joel after leaving Baltimore might actually have made his brother fear Tommy would leave him. Yet more than that guilt, Tommy felt himself grow inexplicably warm at Joel's grudging, unspoken admission that having Tommy around mattered to him. It fed that tiny, deeply buried part of Tommy that, despite everything, would always, _always_ crave his big brother's approval.

"Well, I said I would," Tommy said after a moment. "Stick with you, I mean. I'm here. Just us this time. We got this."

"Yeah we do," Joel murmured.

In the next moment, however, his expression changed and his gaze shifted as if looking over Tommy's shoulder.

"Can we help you?" he said, flint creeping back into his tone.

The smile vanished from Tommy's face and he turned to see who Joel was addressing. A young man had come up behind Tommy, probably near the same age, with a broad face and thick blond-red beard, long hair pulled back in a tail.

"Hey, how you doin'?" the man asked, grinning disarmingly.

Joel narrowed his eyes and Tommy shifted so that the man could not see him start to reach slowly for the gun stuck into his rear waistband.

"No no, I wouldn't if I were you," said a voice behind them.

Both brothers turned to see another man, this one shorter, with a thin goatee and low brow, brown hair just starting to gray. He was probably closer to Joel's age, perhaps a few years older. Instantly, Tommy stopped reaching for his gun, but his eyes darted to possible escapes. They still stood at the edge of the market, next to one of the many identical brick apartment buildings, the sprawling tent city behind them. Another street led away from the other end of the market, and to their left was an empty alleyway covered by a taut, slanted tarp that had been tied to a second-story window. There was an open doorway into one of the buildings forming the sides of the alley, but Tommy could see only darkness within.

"Let's take a walk, huh?" the older man with the goatee said, gesturing towards the alleyway.

Without moving, Tommy glanced sidelong at Joel, who paused for a second, then shook his head, quietly rumbling, "I don't think so."

"I wasn't askin'," the man replied, lifting a brow.

From the corner of his eye, Tommy saw the first man take a step forward. In an instant, both brothers had snapped to action. Tommy spun, throwing a fist towards the first man's gut, while both of Joel's hands shot out as if to grab the second man by the collar and throw him to the ground. The first man twisted away from Tommy's punch, but Tommy rammed a shoulder into his chest, driving them both backwards until the man was pinned against the wall of the building nearest them.

"STOP."

The growl of a third voice stopped Tommy in his tracks. Not because it echoed so resoundingly off the walls of the alley, nor because the people passing through the marketplace so pointedly ignored it, but because Tommy recognized it. His heart sank as he stopped and turned towards the speaker, an elbow still pressed to the blond man's throat.

Troy did not need to shout to be heard. He was chewing on the end of a toothpick as he stepped out from the open doorway in the alleyway, casually pointing a pistol with the hammer pulled back. He looked almost bored, despite the fact that Tommy had one of his people pinned against a wall and Joel had two hands around the collar of the second.

"C'mon now," Troy continued calmly. He deftly twitched the tip of his pistol upward.

Tommy and Joel threw glances at each other, but Joel pressed his lips together and shook his head, releasing the second man with a look of grim surrender. Tommy gave a pinched sigh and let up on the man with the blond-red beard, stepping back. Glaring, both brothers slowly raised their hands.

"Rodger, Hemmy," Troy rumbled, nodding at the two strangers, then gesturing towards Tommy and Joel with the tip of his pistol. "Back waistbands, both of 'em."

Joel's jaw tightened as the two men, Rodger and Hemmy, circled Tommy and him and pulled from their belts the pistols that they both carried tucked into the rear of their jeans.

"What do you want, Troy?" Joel muttered, hands still held aloft.

Troy tipped his head to the side. "To have a conversation," he said. His slow southern drawl had a way of making him sound disinterested, but his eyes never once left Joel and Tommy. "Answer a few questions. Work out a coupla things."

"Okay," Joel replied warily.

"C'mon."

Troy turned and started deeper down the alleyway. Tommy felt the end of his own pistol bore into his back as the blond-haired man, Hemmy, shoved him forward.

"Go on," Hemmy said casually, as if they were out for a Sunday stroll.

They shuffled forward, following Troy without a word until they stood beneath the tarp that slanted over part of the backstreet. A corner had been left loose, thrown up over the taut portion to keep the passage clear. Troy reached up now and pulled it free, letting gravity tumble the tarp downward until it hung towards the ground, shielding them from view of the market behind them.

Stopping at a stack of discarded furniture, Troy propped himself on the edge of a broken bookshelf that had been pushed over on its side. He set a boot against a rocking chair missing one of its rockers, then waved for Joel and Tommy to stand in front of him. Still moving slowly and with hands raised, they did so, shuffling until their backs were to the far side of the alley. Rodger and Hemmy stood off a few feet, guns still pointed at the brothers.

"Now," Troy started matter-of-factly, "let's talk. What're you two doin' with Fireflies?"

Tommy glanced at Joel to answer. He had always been far friendlier with Troy.

So Joel drew a slow breath, watching their former friend with narrowed eyes. "They were helpin' us outta some trouble."

"What kinda trouble?"

"We were in Baltimore for a while. Got caught in the middle of the military and rebels. Didn't go the right way." He paused, but Troy tipped his head as if expecting more. Joel ground his teeth and continued. "We ended up killin' some people 'cause of bullshit the Fireflies got us into. Had to get the hell outta Dodge, so they offered to get us up here.

"Gettin' caught up in rebel causes?" Troy replied, lifting a brow. "Don't really seem like you." He glanced at Tommy. "Or at least, not like one of you."

"Guess not," Joel muttered.

Troy breathed deep, then released it quickly, nodding in thought. "So you ain't with the Fireflies?

"No."

"No plans to be?"

"No."

"Good," Troy said, nodding again. "That's good. The Fireflies are good business. I don't want trouble with 'em."

"Were you expectin' some?"

"Not anymore." Troy still had his pistol trained casually on the two brothers, but he glanced now at Rodger and Hemmy, then threw his head in Joel's direction. "Him first."

Tommy's eyes widened as Rodger and Hemmy stepped forward. Joel himself suddenly looked like a cornered animal, his glare vanishing as his teeth clenched and he dropped to a crouch, bracing for the two men to attack.

"_Don't_, Joel," Troy growled sharply, the first flash of anger crossing his dark face. "I ain't gonna kill ya. I told you already." He straightened his arm, now pointing his pistol straight at Tommy, with none of the casual air he had maintained until then.

His voice dropped to a dangerous rumble. "But if you think I'm just gonna let you two waltz in here after what you did, you don't know nothin'."

Troy and Joel stood staring at one another for several long seconds, Joel's eyes flickering between Troy and Tommy, who stood glaring down the barrel of Troy's pistol. Finally, slowly shaking his head with a quiet, angry scowl, Joel eased out of his crouch. He let his hands hang at his side as Rodger and Hemmy stepped forward again, each roughly taking one of Joel's shoulders and shoving him backwards a handful of paces until his back hit the wall. But Joel only stared at Troy, expression hard, even as he let himself be pushed back.

Rodger threw the first punch. It caught Joel square in the stomach, doubling him over with a grunt until Hemmy straightened him against the wall again and hit him a second time, this time slamming a fist into the side of Joel's jaw.

Fury boiling, Tommy balled his fists and felt his nails dig into his palms. Yet as he instinctively started to lean towards the two men beating his brother, Troy shook his head.

"Uh uh, Tommy," he grunted, using his gun to point Tommy well back.

By the time Rodger and Hemmy had finished, Joel had fallen to a knee, shakily curling around his abused abdomen as blood dribbled across the pavement from his bleeding nose and split lip. He spat out a messy wad of mixed blood and saliva, breathing ragged around a nose and mouth full of blood.

Rodger grabbed one of Joel's shoulders and shoved him back onto his haunches until he was in a sitting position, back against the wall again, knees drawn up. Between coughs and labored breaths, Joel rested his wrists atop his knees and let his head loll back, one good eye and one black one staring grimly at Troy. For his part, Troy leaned forward and rested an elbow against the knee he had propped against the broken rocking chair, as if waiting for Joel to say something.

"This mean we're square?" Joel growled faintly, spitting again and wiping a sleeve across his bloody chin.

Troy squinted, lips parting as he paused and suddenly smirked, an expression that was far more scornful than amused. "Do you even _know_ what happened after you three left?" he said. "Lemme enlighten you. Suddenly everybody had _ideas_, Joel. Better ways of doin' things. I mean hell, what the fuck were they doin' trustin' me when _Joel_ didn't even have enough faith to stick around?" The last comment was laden with sarcasm.

"It wasn't like that, Troy," Tommy started to say.

"Shut the fuck up, Tommy," Troy returned coolly, not even bothering to look at Tommy. Instead, he kept his gaze level on Joel. "First Paul took off with Jamie and Jonathan. Then it was Jackie, Aaron, Carol, and Edgar, figurin' they were better off on their own. Bruce got bit the day you three left, Bennie a few weeks later. Then Kathy stepped on a nail, ended up gettin' tetanus. Died of goddamn _tetanus._

"And when it was finally just me and Robin and Big Brian? We figured it was high time to find ourselves a zone. Heard New York was still runnin'." A bitter shadow crossed Troy's face. "Place is a goddamn warzone. If disease and military don't kill you, then all the fuckin' people tryin' to get in will. Robin and Brian both got bullets in the back of the head before we even made it near the wall, from a coupla goddamn kids with M16s."

Joel had dropped his gaze to stare at the ground, lightly shaking his head. Tommy felt a numbness steal over him as Troy related the fates of people they had once called family.

"So no, Joel," Troy rumbled scornfully. "We ain't square."

He glanced at Tommy finally, cocking his head with the familiar air of blunt assessment, as if he had long ago filed Tommy away under Weak Link and saw no reason to reassess that judgment now. "I ain't stupid," he muttered, looking back at Joel. "I know why you did what you did. Writin' was on the wall, wasn't it? Tommy bein' the way he is. But that don't make it right, do it? That's still somethin' I gotta deal with.

"Now," he said, leaning back and nodding towards the market. "I gotta think you're still probably more useful to me livin' than dead. When we're done here, you're gonna go back out there and you're gonna find the old lady that runs the rag stall. You're gonna tell her I sent you and she's gonna put you up somewhere, then put you to work tomorrow."

Tommy shot Joel a look half surprised, half confused, and found that Joel's expression was very much the same.

"But first I gotta get right with you two bein' in my zone." Troy nodded and pointed his gun at Tommy. "What happened to your face?"

Tommy tensed, confusion quickly giving way once more to mistrust. "I broke it on the last guy who tried to fuckin' hit me," he answered, jaw tightening.

Troy smiled, amused. "How long ago?"

"Two months."

He nodded, then waved Rodger and Hemmy towards Tommy. "Leave his face then."

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks for reading and reviewing! I've been incredibly fortunate to have readers who faithfully review every week, or take the time to leave an extensive review every now and again. As I think I've said before, I'm at a point where I'm writing because I want to know where the story goes myself, but you all keep me writing on the schedule that I do, even when real life threatens to take away every smidgen of free time I have. I've had a chance to PM most of you and thank you for your feedback, but I'll also thank my Guest reviewer this week since I can't PM you. Best in the fandom? Holy cow, you sure know how to make a fanfiction writer grin with delight. :) I am glad you are enjoying so far, thank you for your very kind words!<strong>

**I would also like to thank MattD356, who offered to read through my chapters for smaller spelling and flow errors. No need to criticize him for the offer - I'm in law school and an aspiring author, so I've learned to take constructive feedback very well! I certainly love gushing reviews (who doesn't? :D), but I know I can always improve. I made a conscious decision awhile ago that I would just have to accept smaller spelling errors because I didn't have the time to do multiple thorough read-throughs of each update. I've never had a beta for this story, but I am happy to say I've accepted Matt's offer, since I'd like to bring you guys updates that are as good as they can be. :) Thank you, Matt!**

**So, we're finally in Boston. Our boys still have plenty of adventures ahead of them, but you can probably guess that this is where they'll stay. ;) At the moment, I've got somewhere in the neighborhood of 10 to 12 chapters still planned, but by now you should realize I'm AWFUL at estimating how many chapters I will end up with. I believe I originally envisioned this as a short, episodic story of perhaps 10 chapters. Now, 19 chapters and well over 100k words later... :D**

**Tune in next time as Joel and Tommy find themselves pulled into Boston's criminal underground, meet new faces, and have to deal with problems from their past.**


	20. Chapter 20 - The Storm

**Apologies for the delay, everyone! I ended up with a couple of very busy weekends in a row (alas, Seahawks, alas) and that is when I get the bulk of my writing done. But I didn't want to rush this one! It's a long chapter and one I think many of you have been eagerly awaiting (I have!), so I wanted to get it right. Thus, without further ado, read on!  
><strong>

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 20<span>

_May 2, 2019, Morning_

Rain drummed against the tarp overhead, sagging the plastic material as water pooled in places, dripping along long lines where the tarp had grown weathered and begun to crack. Tommy could feel it dripping somewhere around his ankle and absently shifted his leg as he lay, one hand under his head, eyes closed.

His bed was a low coffee table, lifted just barely a foot off the ground, enough to keep him above the rivulets of rainwater that ran through the cobblestones below. As Tommy shifted, the table creaked, complaining of having been left out of doors for too long.

"I found some old pillows in the basement of that church on Hanover yesterday." Joel's voice drifted wearily through the sound of the pouring rain. His bed – two wooden pallets covered with a thin rug – lay alongside Tommy's.

"Okay," Tommy muttered without opening his eyes. "So we decoratin' now? 'Cause y'know, I been thinkin' this place could use some throw pillows. Maybe a coupla scented candles. Some decorative flowers."

Joel snorted. "Very funny, smartass. I figured we could tear 'em up for rags."

Tommy lazily opened his eyes, blinking against the gray light that filtered through the tarps from the cloudy morning sky above. He glanced down at Joel's boots, which were nearest Tommy's head. "If they're pillows," he said after a second, "they're probably worth more as pillows than as rags."

Joel absently cleared his throat. "Smelled like damp had got in 'em. Don't know if they're any good for pillows anymore."

"Don't think Helen'll care," Tommy said, shrugging. "We bring her some pretty awful rags sometimes, and she still manages to clean 'em up nice enough to sell for a price."

"You think she'll buy pillows?"

Tommy shrugged again. "Worth askin'."

They lapsed into silence, each listening to the furious drum of the rain above. The slum bustled around them, a city of tarps with streams of water leaking down at every corner and damp little fires lit every few feet. On the other side of a crate to Tommy's left, he could hear a group of men playing cards, growling and hollering at each other and occasionally breaking out into loud guffaws as the wet cards stuck together. It was cramped and crowded and soggy and noisy, but in its way, the slums were a home. Familiar, if not comfortable.

"What were you doin' in a church?" Tommy said after a moment, yawning.

"Watchin' for the British."

Tommy's brow wrinkled and he lifted his head, looking down at his brother with a sarcastic look.

"What do you think?" Joel sighed, slipping a hand beneath his head. "Lookin' for rags."

That was usually the story these days. Old Helen, unofficially known as Boston's Queen of Rags, never seemed to have enough of them. They could be sold for anything and everything, from patching clothing to binding wounds to cleaning off the constant grit and grime that accumulated with zone life. It wasn't a job that paid particularly well, but selling such junk to Helen at least kept food in their stomachs and tarps over their heads.

Yet as much as scavenging for rags served a purpose, it was also a dull reminder of just how boring zone life could be. As Tommy listened to the drum of the rain, he closed his eyes again and found himself longing for the outside. Dangerous as it was, at least the open road did not entail hours of doing nothing. Sitting glassy-eyed around a drum fire. Playing poker with ratty, peeling cards. Laying prostrate with only the sound of rain and the rank smell of wet clothing to distract you.

There was a reason that, behind ration cards, booze and drugs were Boston's most precious commodities.

"Ho, Tommy," Joel suddenly said, warning in his voice.

Tommy felt himself tense even before his eyes had snapped open. He immediately heaved into a sitting position and swung his legs over the side of the coffee table, reaching for the pocketknife clipped to his belt. Joel had already stood. He held a short, thin length of metal pipe, expression wary.

He was looking up the street. Through the sheeting rain, two figures were weaving amidst the dripping tarps, ducking in and out of the spare cover afforded by the hodgepodge of makeshift shelters. Both wore sweatshirts with hoods drawn up, but the lead figure was tall and broad, and wore the fingerless gloves and leather vest that so easily marked Troy. The second figure was wrapped in a rain jacket and pants, and although the person's smaller size suggested a woman, she moved with the same easy assurance that Troy did.

"Maybe he's not here for us," Tommy muttered as he watched them draw closer.

His brother shot him a look that suggested what they were both thinking. They had spotted Troy on only a handful of occasions since he had left them beaten and bloody in an alley on the day of their arrival. The odds of his being here by chance, here where they had holed up for the past two months, were quite slim.

As if to confirm their suspicions, Troy suddenly looked up through the rainy haze, spotted Joel and Tommy, and began making a beeline straight for them. As he and the woman neared, Troy slowed to a stop and threw back his hood, still standing out in the pouring rain. Water glistened in his beard and slicked back his black hair.

"Troy!" Joel called out stiffly by way of greeting, raising his voice above the din of rain pounding against the tarps above.

"Invite us in!" Troy yelled back. A second later, he waved his hand and added, "We come in peace, so on, so on."

"Who's 'we'?" Joel shouted, pointing the pipe he held at the woman. But Troy only made an annoyed face and looked towards the sky, as if introductions could wait until they were out of the rain. Joel clenched his jaw and relented, waving them forward.

To make room, Tommy shoved his coffee table bed back a foot until it was up against the crate behind it and Joel pushed his two pallets flush beside the table. Even then, their meager accommodations left Troy with a shoulder still out in the rain once he and the woman had crowded into the cramped space. Tommy felt water dripping down his neck as he shuffled back to Joel's side, both brothers warily eyeing their two visitors.

"This is them?" the woman said, tilting her head back towards Troy.

The big man nodded stiffly. "Yeah," he muttered, as if he did not want to be there.

The woman reached up and pulled her hood down, shaking her head as rainwater dripped from her nose and chin. She had a longish, angular face with dark hair pulled back in a messy tail, bangs plastered against her brow. There was a small cut, relatively new, beneath her left eye.

"Troy says you two are lookin' for work," she said. Tommy guessed she was probably a good four or five years younger than he was, but her tone indicated that she was clearly in charge of the conversation: no-nonsense, commanding, with just a hint of derision.

Joel glanced at Tommy, his expression hard and unreadable. "Depends who's askin'," he growled, looking back to the woman.

"I am," she replied.

"And you are?"

"The person offering you work."

Joel's lips pressed together and he crossed his arms, tipping his head to one side as if she would have to do better than that to earn their confidence.

Yet the woman did not explain further. She only imitated Joel, crossing her arms and tilting her head.

For several seconds, she and Joel stood staring at each other, neither moving, neither saying a word. Finally, the muscles along the side of Joel's jaw tightened and his eyes flicked to Troy, then back to the woman.

"Fine," Joel muttered, tone suggesting he found her petulance irritating, rather than impressive. "What's the job?"

The corner of the woman's mouth twitched. "Military's come into possession of some items of mine," she said. "I want them back."

"And you're comin' to us, why?"

She shrugged. "Troy says you two are good in a fight. Most of the people I work with make a livin' flying beneath the radar. You want things hidden, fine. But I wouldn't trust them to go toe-to-toe with the military."

"So you want us stickin' our necks out instead?"

She shrugged again. "Pretty much. You got a problem with that, Texas?"

Tommy cleared his throat, likewise crossing his arms. "What exactly's that mean, go toe-to-toe with the military?" he asked.

The woman glanced at him, as if noticing him for the first time. She did not immediately answer, however. Instead, a half-smirk tugged disdainfully at one corner of her mouth as she looked Tommy up and down.

"You must be the brother," she muttered, glancing at Troy, who nodded. "Well, what do I call _you_ then? Little Texas?"

Tommy felt himself bristle. "Ain't no such thing as little in Texas, lady."

She snorted and Tommy suddenly felt as childish as he was sure he had sounded. The woman smirked. "Ain't no such thing as _Texas_ anymore, _honey_. In case you hadn't noticed."

Joel made a disbelieving sound and glanced at Tommy as if tempted to laugh. "Spoken like somebody who ain't ever been there," he said. "No government and a whole helluva lotta things to shoot? Lady, Texas ain't been better."

The woman returned her attention to Joel, amusement crossing her face. "If you say so," she said. "So, are you in?"

"What're you payin'?" he replied, growing serious again.

She shrugged. "Four cards each."

"Eight," Joel growled. "If we're goin' up against military, you're payin' more'n a half week's rations."

She pursed her lips. "Six cards, and a new tarp to replace this shitty thing," she said, glancing up at the dripping tarp above them.

Joel was silent for several seconds, breathing slow and deep as he considered her counter. Finally, he nodded and held out a hand. "Fine," he growled.

The woman smirked as her eyes flicked down to Joel's outstretched hand, as if she found the gesture quaint. "Be at Lewis and Atlantic in an hour," she said, meeting Joel's hand and shaking it once. "Wait behind the two dumpsters on Lewis Street. We're goin' through a checkpoint, so leave any weapons here. Anything we need, we'll find when we get where we're goin'. Don't be late."

And with that, she glanced back at Troy to indicate it was time to go. Without waiting for questions, she pulled her hood up again and turned, throwing not even a backwards glance as she stepped back out into the rain and began walking away with long, impatient strides.

Troy grumbled something to himself and turned as if to follow.

"Troy," Joel grunted, stopping the big man. "Who is she? What's her name?"

Troy frowned.

"Tess," he answered finally.

Yet in the next instant, an unhappy scowl twisted his features. "This weren't my idea. I'm fine lettin' you two rot down here, but she don't listen to nobody but herself. Don't piss her off, Joel. She ain't as forgivin' as I am."

Joel lifted his brows and glanced at Tommy as Troy turned again and stepped out from under the meager cover offered by the tarps. The brothers watched in silence, arms crossed, as Troy and the woman departed, swallowed a few seconds later by the sheeting rain.

* * *

><p>An hour later and the rain had yet to relent, continuing to fall as an endless gray wall that hammered the broken pavement and reduced visibility to less than a hundred feet. Neither Tommy nor Joel had hoods, but they huddled beneath the cover of large cherry tree, collars up and hands dug into their pockets. Cherry blossoms downed by the rain lay drenched and scattered about them, piled up against the sides of the two rusty dumpsters behind which they were sheltering.<p>

Lewis Street was little more than a one-lane back alley with a line of cherry trees pressed up against one of the two hulking brick buildings that sided the street. It afforded ample cover from the broad four lanes that comprised Atlantic Avenue, where Lewis intersected and ended. Abandoned cars had been left strewn across Atlantic, many pushed to the sides to leave clear a lane for military vehicles.

And beyond Atlantic was the sea. Two long wharfs speared out into the water, but they did little to quell the white caps that leapt up from the thrashing gray harbor.

"Fuckin' hell, man," Hemmy grumbled. "What's Troy gotta go and pick a day like today for?"

Tommy glanced up, grimacing at the squelch he felt as he stamped his wet boots to keep feeling in his toes. He and Joel had arrived to find Troy's friends, Rodger and Hemmy, waiting for them at the rendezvous. The two men huddled into the half shelter of a covered doorway now, several feet off from the brothers, but was difficult to scowl at them when they both looked as much like a pair of drowned puppies as Tommy was sure he and Joel did.

"It ain't Troy," Rodger muttered, shaking rainwater from the brim of the ball cap he wore. "This is Tess. All part of her plan."

Tommy frowned. "And what plan is that?" he said, raising his voice above the rain.

The other man only shrugged, however. "Damned if I know. But she's always got one."

All four lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. Tommy kept a wary eye on their former attackers, watching them for signs that this little meeting might turn into another ambush. Rain dripped from the end of Hemmy's thick red-blond beard, which he kept shaking as if out of habit. Every time he shook his head, however, his gaze would dart up for just a second, shooting quick glances towards Tommy and Joel. Rodger, on the other hand, had the air of a world-weary veteran. He wore a faded leather jacket with the collar up, chin buried into the front of it, eyes almost closed, thoroughly ignoring the rest of them.

"Hey," Hemmy finally said, clearing his throat. "About last time. I mean, when we met…"

Rodger glanced up, then seemed to roll his eyes. "Hem," he grunted, as if his friend were being childish.

Hemmy ignored him, turning instead to Joel and Tommy. He opened his mouth, brows lifting in congenial, apologetic manner. "You know that wasn't personal, right?"

He was half-smiling, the lines around his eyes wrinkling deep, like a man accustomed to smiling. In that instant, he struck Tommy as an unsettling rarity: someone who had somehow, despite everything, retained a sense of optimism. Tommy suddenly half-suspected a simpleton.

He and Joel only scowled.

"I mean," the younger man said. "I guess I'd get it…if you did take it personally, I mean. It was just, you know, just helpin' out a buddy. That's all."

Joel's lips parted, expression suspicious. "Well, that was real friendly of you."

"That's our Hemmy," Rodger grumbled, scratching at his thin goatee. "Friendly as a puppy. Even to the people who'd like to wring his friendly little neck."

"Ain't helpin', Rodge," Hemmy muttered to the side, smile fading.

"What kinda name is Hemmy anyway?" Tommy suddenly asked.

The young man's face lit up and he shot Rodger a smirk, as if smug that he had enticed one of the scowling brothers into conversation. "Ain't my real name," he answered. "Had a buncha people start callin' me Thor when the movie came out, on account of all this." He waved his hand vaguely, indicating his blond beard and long hair pulled back in a tail. "But Thor's a stupid name. So they started callin' me Hemmy instead. Like Hemsworth, y'know? Chris Hemsworth? You get it?"

He was grinning, but Joel only dropped his scowl for an unimpressed stare. "Yeah, I get it," he muttered, unamused.

"Anyway, name stuck."

"'Cause Hemmy's _way_ less stupid than Thor," Rodger grumbled, crossing his arms.

"Why you gotta be like that, Rodge?" Hemmy said lightly, as if this were an old tit-for-tat between the two of them.

"'Cause you're more like a fuckin' hemorrhoid than Chris Hemsworth, son."

"You know, Rodger Rabbit's supposed to be a lot funner than this, Rodge," Hemmy returned, grinning.

"Yeah well, the day you become Jessica Rabbit, we'll talk."

Tommy found himself smiling despite himself, watching the two banter like a married couple while the rain poured around them. Even Joel shot Tommy an incredulous look that indicated he was more inclined to consider the two slightly crazy than an actual threat.

"Are you two done?"

The voice came from the other side of the two dumpsters as Tess and Troy suddenly emerged from the haze of rain, coming from the direction of Atlantic Avenue.

"Please, god, yes," Rodger muttered with exasperation, pushing off the doorway he had been leaning against.

Tommy straightened, feeling himself grow tense as they all gathered into a rough circle, eyes on Tess. She carried an old backpack over one shoulder, which she now slung to the ground. Stooping, she unzipped the bag and pulled out a handful of rags and several thin pieces of wood, each about as long as a pen, with jagged ends, as if they had all been part of a single longer piece at one point. The sides of the wood were smooth and stained dark, likely some discarded piece of furniture.

"Here," Tess said, handing a piece of wood and a rag to each of the men in turn.

Joel fingered the piece of wood he had been given, brushing away the rainwater where it beaded across the wood's treated surface. "What're these for?" he muttered.

"Knocking on," she answered sarcastically.

She stood again, but not before snatching up a broken chunk of stone that looked to have fallen away from a decorative window sill on one of the buildings looming above them. Without a word of explanation, she threw her arm back, then hurled the broken stone towards one of the ground level windows of the building against which the two dumpsters had been pushed.

The window shattered with the sound of tinkling glass, a gaping hole suddenly yawning from its center, a myriad of sunburst cracks spreading away it.

"Shivs," Tess explained tersely, approaching the window and using one of the rags to grasp the tip of one of the shards of glass that still stabbed towards the hole created by the thrown stone. She pulled the shard free of the window and positioned it alongside one of the pieces of wood, then promptly wrapped it with the cloth to form a makeshift handle of sorts. From her coat pocket she drew a roll of what looked like electrical tape, which she swiftly used to secure the entire apparatus into place.

"Seriously?" Tommy suddenly said, incredulous. "You plan on takin' on FEDRA…with shivs?"

"We're not _takin' on FEDRA_," Tess replied, imitating him with an exaggerated Texas drawl. "We're going in their back door. That means doing things quietly. Got it?"

"We got it," Joel muttered, before Tommy could say anything further. "What's the plan?"

Troy answered for her. "There's a big glass buildin' end of that wharf," he said, turning to point towards Atlantic Avenue and the wharf nearest them. "Used t'be a big fancy yacht club. Most of the boats're long gone, but the military still uses the wharf for shippin' in stuff from the outside, from other zones along the coast and from a big agricultural outpost south of here."

"I occasionally get shipments in," Tess continued. "When I special order from someone on the outside. People look the other way, for a price."

"Only somebody didn't look the other way this time," Joel said, guessing.

She nodded. "I had arranged a drop off, but suddenly my man is under investigation for failure to report undocumented shipped goods. Not _my_ undocumented shipped goods, but that still leaves my shit out there without an inside man to move it. So right now, they're just sitting at the end of that wharf and I've got buyers waiting for them."

Rodger and Hemmy nodded as if the explanation were routine, but Joel and Tommy were more cautious. They shot glances at each other.

"What kinda security we lookin' at?" Joel asked finally.

Troy shook rainwater from his hood. "Whole wharf's gated off for military shippin' business, but the gate's just at the front, where it meets Atlantic Avenue. At the tip, past the old yacht club, it's just a skeleton patrol. Three soldiers total."

"And how're we gettin' to the tip if the front's gated off?"

Tess's business-like seriousness abruptly gave way to a thin smirk that immediately set Tommy on edge.

"I hope you two can swim," she said.

* * *

><p>Gray waves clapped and spun around Tommy, throwing him from one rolling swell to another as the rain above made the already frothing water seem to boil with anger. It was everything Tommy could do to keep his sense of direction as the waves washed over him and the pouring rain turned everything to a shapeless gray. Ahead, he could see just the barest of outlines, a hint of a thing, white and angular but otherwise obscured by the fog of the storm.<p>

A tug around Tommy's waist caused him to cease his slow, steady strokes and tread water, twisting to look behind him. Joel trailed several feet behind, black hair slicked back against his head. The two brothers were connected by a length of thin rope tied around both of their waists. Behind Joel came Troy and Tess, likewise tied together with rope, each beating the thrashing waves with long, determined strokes.

"Bad fuckin' idea!" Tommy yelled above the roar of the sea as Joel floated level with him.

Joel's brows only drew together. "What?" he shouted back.

"Nevermind!" Tommy waved, shaking his head and twisting around again.

Slowly, they drew closer to the indistinct object ahead and it began to materialize into a dull white hull. The yacht looked tipsy and unsteady, rocking like a drunkard as the storm pulled at its loose moorings. A rusting motor and propeller hung precariously from its rear. A few more strokes and Tommy could just start to make out the floating dock to which the yacht was tied, a branching network of wide wooden walkways scattered with crates and crab pots and buoys. Other boats swam into view now too, some yachts, others tug boats, and still others high-keeled fishing boats with deep bellies to store their precious cargo. There were perhaps a dozen in all, though the wharf still looked only half full.

Suddenly Tommy felt his foot strike something hard and unyielding. For just a moment, his stomach clenched with the brief panic that grips those who have not grown up around the ocean, as every Jaws movie flashed through his mind in a blinding second. Yet when he looked down, he saw only the shadow of a sunken boat beneath the waves, upturned hull painted red and white.

"Here we go!" Joel growled to Tommy's left, drawing his attention back to the dock. Joel let a wave sweep him the last little distance towards the floating walkway, which he thumped against with a grunt and instantly grappled to find something to hold onto. His wet fingers wrapped around a metal dock cleat that had once been used to moor boats, then he turned and tugged on the rope connecting him to Tommy. A second later, Tommy thumped against the dock beside his brother, gasping as the shock of the blow suddenly made him realize how shaky his limbs had grown in the time it had taken them to cross the water from Lewis Wharf to the much larger Commercial Wharf.

"I said," Tommy sputtered, as waves slapped around them. "This was a bad fuckin' idea."

Joel snorted as he floated up and down with the movement of the bucking dock. "No shit, Sherlock," he returned through clenched teeth.

Behind him, Troy and Tess struck the dock next, flailed for a second, then found purchase on several of the same cleats to which Joel and Tommy now clung.

"Next time," Joel growled, twisting to look at Tess, "we volunteer for guard duty. Let Troy's boys drown."

Somewhere through the gray rain, Rodger and Hemmy were keeping watch on Lewis Wharf, keeping it clear of unwanted attention lest the four swimmers had to beat a quick retreat back across the water.

"Aw c'mon, Texas. Where's your sense of adventure?" Tess quipped, smirking as she hauled on the dock cleat to pull herself up and survey the floating walkway. The surface of the dock was a good foot above water.

Joel snorted and shook his head, but as he turned back towards Tommy, he muttered, "On goddamn solid ground."

Tommy suppressed a grin.

"We're clear," Tess barked down to the three of them, quickly sobering them with a reminder of their purpose here. She lowered herself back into the water and untied the rope around her waist. Troy did likewise and tossed the sodden rope onto the dock above them.

"C'mon, Joel!" the big man grunted, waving Joel towards Tess. "On three!"

They positioned themselves on either side of Tess and she placed a hand on each of their shoulders.

"One…Two…Three!"

Together, Troy and Joel shoved Tess up and out of the thrashing water, using their leverage where they held the dock to anchor their weight. She hit the rain-soaked wood with a grunt and scrambled forward onto her stomach, dragging her legs out of the water and catching her breath for several seconds. But she wasted very little time whipping around again and crouching on hands and knees, a hand held down towards Troy next.

By the time they had hauled each other out of the water, they were panting with the exertion and soaked to the bone, grateful for the spare cover afforded by a couple of crates that sat beside the yacht with the white hull.

Tommy fished his glass-shard shiv out from his belt and risked a glance around the crate against which he had briefly propped himself. In the distance, he could make out the gray shape of what he guessed must be the luxury yacht club Troy had mentioned. Other shapes were cluttered around it, mostly gray and white as well, suggesting more boats were spread around the other side of the wharf.

"There," Joel suddenly muttered beside Tommy.

Joel was looking not at the yacht club, but further out to where the floating walkway branched out into individual moorings. Tommy twisted and peeked over the top of the crate they were using as cover.

At the far end of the dock, two gray figures were standing side by side, backs to the four intruders. The figures were partially obscured by the rain, but had the unmistakable bulk of helmets and flak jackets.

Tess nodded, once she too had glanced around a crate to confirm the presence of the two soldiers. "Don't let them fire," she said. "I don't know how many others are holed up in that clubhouse, and I don't plan on finding out. Quick and quiet, got it?"

The three men nodded.

"I got point," Troy growled, then stabbed a finger towards Tommy. "You're with me. Joel, you stay with Tess, keep a watch for that third guard."

Tommy barely had time to register his surprise that Troy would choose him before the big man was moving, scuttling out from cover and starting to move up the dock towards the two patrolling soldiers.

It felt so much like the old days that, for just a moment, Tommy forgot the pouring rain and rolling dock. Indeed, it suddenly felt oddly uncomfortable to be holding only a shiv, rather than the familiar hunting rifle he had once carried as he followed Troy into an ambush. As Tommy ducked out after Troy now, his movements were almost automatic, born of years of habit and instinct, rekindled in an instant.

"Newfound faith in your biggest disappointment?" he muttered skeptically, tone still confused, as he and Troy moved quickly, keeping low and darting from cover to cover.

"Don't flatter yourself," Troy snorted, pulling a face. He crouched briefly behind a crate, checked the soldiers ahead still had their backs turned, then ducked forward again, this time finding cover behind the bulk of a moored fishing vessel.

"I'm doin' you a favor, Tommy," he growled once they paused to check their progress again. "That woman don't care for bleedin' hearts. She sees too much of yours, she's liable to kill ya."

Tommy felt himself bristle at Troy's usual bluntness, but he only tightened his grip on his glass shiv.

As they neared the end of the floating dock, the shapes of the two soldiers grew more distinct. Both stood looking out to the sea, gun straps across their shoulders, assault rifles hanging loosely in front of them. The bulkiness that Tommy had seen from afar, however, was not flak jackets: both wore only life vests.

"Jesus," Tommy muttered, peeking out from behind a stack of crab pots. They were only a single mooring away from the soldiers now. "They're more worried about drownin' than anyone comin' up on 'em out here."

"Fine by me," Troy shrugged. "You ready?"

Tommy nodded.

"Don't fuck this up."

"Yes, boss," Tommy sighed, rolling his eyes.

Troy only shot him a glare, then turned away. Together, they darted out from behind the cover of the crab pots and began jogging lightly towards the two unsuspecting soldiers, the sound of their approach masked by the thunderous drum of the rain on the wooden dock.

As they neared the two soldiers, Tommy could hear them speaking in a low rumble, but could not make out any distinct words. Then, just as Troy and Tommy were a handful of feet from them, the dock unexpectedly gave a particularly forceful roll and one of the soldiers casually glanced behind him, even as he was giving some bored answer to a question from his comrade.

"—what I thought, only he didn't say—"

The soldier's eyes suddenly widened.

"Dave! Loo—"

His exclamation was cut off as Troy lunged forward. The soldier's panicked focus had locked on Tommy, but it was Troy who sprang up and wrapped an arm around the man's shoulder before plunging the jagged tip of his glass shiv into the base of the man's throat.

The other soldier spun, a stunned look of horror twisting across his features as he watched his comrade slump to the dock. He started to lift his assault rifle, but Tommy was close enough to grab the barrel. His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around the metal tip of the gun before he yanked hard. The soldier stumbled forward as the gun strap around his shoulder suddenly snapped taut with Tommy's pull.

Then Troy was at Tommy's side, legs spread wide with his weight dropped, since they stood so near the edge of the bucking dock. He was no longer holding his shiv, but he kicked at the second soldier's legs just as Tommy swung with his other fist, still holding his glass shiv as his knuckles snapped the man's head back. Troy's kick swept the soldier's legs out from under him, but with Tommy still grasping the assault rifle and the strap still taut around the soldier's shoulders, the force of Troy's kick spun the man's legs out over the water, while the man's torso and shoulders jerked awkwardly and did not follow. The soldier flopped into the sea feet and stomach first, but his head did not clear the dock, instead striking the edge of it face-first in a gout of blood.

Amazingly, as the soldier floated backwards in the water, his face a bloom of red, he still groaned with dazed consciousness. Tommy clenched his teeth and dropped to his knees, tugging on the rifle he still held and pulling the semi-conscious soldier back towards the dock.

"Sorry, kid," he muttered, glancing briefly at Troy, then back at the soldier.

With a grimace, Tommy shoved the tip of his shiv into the man's chest. The soldier's weak struggles stilled and he bobbed backwards, slumping around his life vest as the water buffeted against him. Lips pressed thin, Tommy jerked the gun strap over the lifeless soldier's head and freed the assault rifle, then gently pushed the body away from the dock. In an instant, the swollen sea had claimed it, thrashing the body away as a watery red stain spread behind it like spilled oil.

Tommy scrambled back to his feet just as Troy rolled the body of the first soldier off the edge of the dock and into the water with a splash. Raindrops bounced up from the thin pool of blood that had spread across half the dock's soaked wooden surface.

"Goddamn glass," Troy growled, wiping a palm across one of his pants legs. Tommy noticed now that Troy's hand was bleeding, as if the shiv had broken as he held it.

"You okay?" Tommy grunted.

Troy only scowled and turned away.

Joel and Tess were jogging towards them now, both carrying one of the empty backpacks the team had brought with them across the water.

As they slowed to a halt, Tess frowned and gave a few grudging nods as she looked out to where the two soldiers were bobbing away into the distance. "Not bad, considering," she said, then gestured towards Tommy. "You look like you had a bit of trouble."

"He's dead, ain't he?" Tommy growled back, bristling.

Tess smirked. "Touchy touchy. Guess Troy was right you aren't fond of killing."

"I got less problem with soldiers," Tommy returned, jaw tightening as he threw Troy a dark look. "It's innocents I got issue with. Guess I'm picky like that."

Tess smiled, as if disbelieving, then she actually gave a short laugh. "Innocents? Really? Wow. That's cute."

"Can we get on?" Joel interjected, shooting Tommy a glare.

"I don't know," she continued, effecting a falsely curious tone. "I kind've want to see one of these innocents your brother believes in."

"Tess, c'mon," Troy urged, though he spread his hands half-apologetically, as if expecting her to react poorly.

But she only smirked and shook her head, then turned back towards the nearest mooring. "Should be over there. C'mon."

With Tess leading the way, the four of them left the end of the dock and approached a small fishing boat with peeling green paint. Tess checked that no one was aboard, then vaulted the side, landing at the center of the rocking boat with a light thump. Joel followed a second later, while Troy and Tommy remained standing on the dock.

"Here we go," Tess said. Crouching, she hauled out from under a damp canvas cover a small crate with a faded red stamp of a lobster upon it, the words _Maine Atlantic_ printed boldly beneath.

"Troy, gimme your shiv," she said, holding out an impatient hand.

He grunted. "It broke."

"Here." Tommy propped the assault rifle he held against the side of a crab pot and leaned over the side of the boat, handing her his own shiv. The glass blade was still red in places where the rain had not washed the blood away.

Tess took it without a word. Bending over the crate, she worked the jagged tip of the shiv between the tight crevice formed by the body of the crate and the lid, which been nailed into place. Once it was in a centimeter or so, she snatched up one of the metal fishing net floats that had been piled into one corner of the boat. It was round, but Tess threaded two fingers through the metal loop at the top of the float that would ordinarily have been tied to a net. With a grunt, she swung the ball, striking the end of the shiv handle and driving the glass blade deeper into the crevice at the top of the crate.

It took several swings, but when the shiv was finally buried nearly to the hilt, the crate gave a load groan and crack as the nails popped free. Joel circled it and pulled on the lid, straining with clenched teeth until it popped completely off.

"What the hell?" he muttered suddenly, glaring down into the crate.

The inside was packed with straw, damp around the edges but otherwise dry. Yet nestled into the soft padding were pistols, boxes of bullets, several disassembled bigger rifles that Tommy guessed were probably AK-47s, and even a number of round green balls with pins sticking out of them.

"Y'know, I ain't ever been in the military," Tommy said, lifting a brow. "But I know a goddamn grenade when I see one."

"You plannin' on goin' to war with somebody?" Joel asked.

"Nope," Tess answered, already pulling out several of the pistols and checking their condition. "But the people who _are_? They pay _very_ well." She grinned up at them.

"Do they?" Joel said slowly. He pried the lid the rest of the way off and tossed it aside, then crossed his arms. "Sounds like you can pay us more than six cards then."

The grin vanished from Tess's face. "Excuse me?"

"Hard of hearin'?"

"Joel, don't," Troy interjected, expression suddenly tense.

Tess stood, dropping the pistols back into the crate and fixing Joel with a hard, studious expression. "Not a lot of people have the balls to say that to me."

Joel tipped his head and shrugged, as if to ask her what she planned to do about it. "How many people you ask to strap a pack fulla bombs onto their backs and then swim through a goddamn storm for you?"

Her jaw tightened. "Six was the deal, Texas."

"And eight's a goddamn steal for you, and you know it."

The two of them stared at each other for several seconds, both with arms crossed, both with stony, unshakeable expressions. The rain pounded the boat deck around them.

"What the _fuck?_"

The shocked exclamation of the soldier at the far end of the mooring shattered the brittle tension that surrounded the fishing boat. Tommy whipped round, heart sinking as he spotted the young man in uniform, undoubtedly the third soldier whose patrol of the dock had finally brought him here. His eyes were wide and he was pointing his assault rifle at the four intruders.

"Hands above your fuckin' heads!" the soldier yelled above the rain.

Weaponless and exposed where they stood on the dock, both Tommy and Troy scowled and started to lift their hands, but as they did so, Tommy saw Joel suddenly stoop.

A second later, the metal net float was hurtling through the air. The soldier had just time enough to give a startled cry before the ball struck him in the side of the face, causing him to stumble back a foot. Then Joel was vaulting the side of the fishing boat, shaking the dock as he landed and began tearing down the walkway towards the soldier.

The young man gasped as Joel reached him and wrapped an arm around his neck. The soldier's knees buckled and he dropped his rifle, hands suddenly clawing at Joel's arm, flailing wildly towards Joel's face, useless resistance as Joel's unrelenting grip tightened.

When the soldier's gasps and stuttering chokes finally diminished and his eyes started to roll back into his head, Joel slowly dropped to a knee. A second later, the young man's struggles ceased altogether and his body became very still. Joel grunted and pushed him away, letting the dead man flop face-first onto the dock.

Grimacing, Joel stood, jaw clenched, and let his gaze wander wordlessly back to Tess.

She still stood on the boat, one hand on her hip, expression as sharp and hard as it had been moments ago. Yet there was a glint in her eye now, a smirk that wasn't a smirk, as if she could have laughed, but was still too pissed to let herself do so.

Without warning, she shook her head and tossed one of the backpacks towards Joel. "Pack the goddamn guns," she snapped. "You'll get your eight cards."

* * *

><p><em>Late Afternoon<em>

A wall of ivy had engulfed the side of the building against which they sheltered, growing green and lush from ground to roof. The rain had relented some, but it still fell in a steady drizzle from the gray sky above and dripped from the ends of the ivy to the cobblestones below.

They stood in a courtyard of sorts, an awkward postage stamp of ground squashed between three buildings, but accessible from three different directions, meaning there was little chance of being cornered.

Joel, Troy, and Tommy stood under the scant cover offered by the eves of the ivy building, arms crossed and heads bowed. All three were still soaked from the day and Tommy could feel a chill starting in his chest. In the distance, he could see Tess leaning against a wall at the mouth of an alley that opened onto Hanover Street, coolly awaiting the arrival of her buyers.

As he watched her, he heard the sound of shifting clothing to his side. Troy had his back against the ivy building, eyes closed as if ready for a long sleep after an even longer day, but Joel was awake and alert and he shot Tommy a look that stated plainly his discomfort with waiting here.

"Troy?" Joel said abruptly.

"Mm?" Troy grunted, not opening his eyes.

"Why're you helpin' us?"

Troy's eyes opened, but he only stared at the ground. "I ain't. I told ya, I was fine lettin' you two rot in the slums."

"Okay," Joel continued, slowly shrugging. "So you didn't have a choice in us gettin' involved. But now we're here, and you keep warnin' us off her." He nodded towards Tess's distant figure. "And you got us a job and a place to stay in the slums in the first place. Why?"

"I told you, you're more use livin' than dead," Troy growled, as if that should put an end to it.

The muscles around Joel's jaw clenched as he shook his head and lapsed into silence in the face of Troy's continued obstinacy.

Yet Troy did not close his eyes again or return to ignoring the two brothers. His gaze lingered on the cobblestones at his feet, arms still crossed, until finally he shifted and let a pinched, impatient sigh escape him.

"Look," he muttered, looking at neither Tommy nor Joel. "Life I lived, retaliation's what ya did. You don't let no one walk away from ya after they did ya wrong. I did fifteen years in prison for tryin' to live that way. It don't work."

He looked up, fixing Joel with a look. "What, you suspicious 'cause you think I'm holdin' onto a goddamn grudge? I'm happy t'let you rot 'cause I don't trust ya. Ain't 'cause I want ya dead."

As Troy spoke, the glare slowly slipped out of Joel's expression and he let his eyes slide to the ground. As usual, Tommy could only guess what his brother's thoughts were, but Joel glanced up again as Troy pointed down the alley towards Tess.

"But Tess?" the former biker growled. "You cross her like you did me, she'll kill you. Just figured you oughta have fair warnin' before ya get into bed with her."

"Speakin' of which…" Tommy said, trailing off as he pushed away from the ivy building. Tess had turned away from the street and was making her way back down the alley towards them, three new people in tow. As they neared, Tommy recognized one of them.

"Marlene!" he said, grinning as the Firefly came to a halt behind Tess. "How've you been?"

Yet Marlene's greeting was anything but what Tommy expected. When she turned to look at him, her stare was hard and unreadable, lips thin. Tommy's brief joy turned quickly to confusion as he shot her a questioning look. When last they had parted ways, Marlene had not indicated he should be cautious about acknowledging her if ever they met again. Why would she choose to ignore him now?

And ignore him she did.

She turned away from Tommy without a word and tipped her head at Tess. "The guns?"

Tess's eyes were flicking between the two of them, brows lifted as if she were mildly interested. "Yeah. Sure," she said slowly. Then she turned and snapped her fingers at Troy. "The bags."

Stooping, Troy retrieved the two backpacks of guns and grenades from behind a garbage can and handed them to Tess, who in turn held them up to Marlene. The Firefly dug into a coat pocket and pulled out a stack of ration cards.

"Are you working with these two?" Marlene asked tersely, nodding towards Joel and Tommy once she and Tess had exchanged the guns for the cards.

Tess's brows lifted again and she turned, overdramatically, to look at the two brothers. "Trial run," she replied. "Why?"

"You and I have been doing business for a while now, Tess," Marlene said, her eyes darting briefly to Tommy. "So consider this a good faith gesture. My contact in Baltimore says these two were working with the military there."

Tommy felt his stomach drop. Beside him, Joel grew suddenly tense.

"From what I gather," Marlene continued, "they were informing on several rebel groups in the city. Until things went bad, anyway. My man says they shot their handler and a squad of soldiers in a church on Christmas Eve."

Tess tipped her head slowly to the side as she turned to regard Tommy and Joel. "Really?" she said, staring at them even though she was clearly speaking to Marlene. "Interesting."

"Thought I'd let you know," the Firefly said, lips still thin. "In case you wanted to handle it."

Tess glanced back at Marlene and smiled, but the expression looked oddly forced. "I appreciate the heads up," she said stiffly, and Tommy suddenly had the sense that Tess's gratitude was less than genuine. "Nice doing business with you."

"Always," Marlene nodded. She shot one parting look at Tommy, her face a mixture of simmering anger and disappointment, then turned and departed with her two comrades.

As the Fireflies retreated back down the alley, Tess watched their backs with her arms crossed. Her lips were pressed together and her eyes narrowed, as if she had a foul taste in her mouth. Once they had reached the end of the alley and disappeared out into the street beyond, a slight sneer curled her lip and she muttered under her breath.

"Bitch."

Suddenly she turned, gaze locking on Joel and Tommy.

"So you two screwed over the Fireflies, then scammed them into smuggling you up here?" she asked.

Neither Tommy nor Joel said a word.

Tess nodded. "And then you have the gall, when you're nobodies living in a fucking slum, to renegotiate a deal with_ me_, in the middle of a goddamn job?"

Again, neither brother answered.

She gave a short laugh, but Tommy somehow doubted she was in any way amused. Arms still crossed, Tess turned away from them, shaking her head. Seconds crawled by and Tommy tensely found himself eyeing the other paths that led away from the courtyard.

"So you really killed an entire squad of soldiers?" Tess suddenly said, glancing back at them.

Joel blinked and let his lips part. "Yeah," he replied slowly.

"Both of you?" Her eyes flicked to Tommy.

"Yeah."

"In a church? On Christmas Eve?"

The tone of Tess's voice had changed, as had her expression. She looked almost as if she were smirking as she stared down her nose at them. Joel's own demeanor was far more wary as he stared back at her, giving no answer save to shrug, just slightly, as if there were nothing much more to say on that point.

"That's ironic," Tess said, abruptly smiling. Then she nodded to herself, looked down to the stack of ration cards she held, and began to count out sixteen of them.

"You know what," she said, holding the cards out to Joel. "I think I'll keep you two around."

Joel slowly reached out and accepted the cards, though he looked as if he were prepared for her to jump him if he got any closer.

"See you around, Texas," she smirked, pushing past Joel and Tommy and lifting a hand behind her as she started down one of the other alleyways leading off of the courtyard.

Lips parted, both brothers looked towards Troy, their expressions plainly confused and suspicious.

"Relax," Troy grunted, eyes half rolling as he turned to follow Tess. "Means she likes ya."

* * *

><p><strong>Again, I appreciate the patience! I've got a big school competition I'll be in March 6-8, so I'm aiming for an update before then. Just a reminder though that I always post progress reports at the bottom of my profile, especially if it starts to get close to the two-week point since I've put up a new chapter. So if you're thinking it's been awhile since you've seen an update from me, check my profile for a progress report. And rest assured, my delays are all the result of a very limited writing schedule. In no way am I suffering from writer's block or losing interest in this story. I shall see it through to the bitter end! ;)<strong>

**By the way, recently I've had some questions from folks about what we might ultimately end up seeing in this story. I don't want to give too much away, but I will at least say that the focus of this story has always been on the relationship between Joel and Tommy. We will certainly see glimpses of other parts of their lives, especially as they grow increasingly distant, but that relationship and the events they experience together will remain the focus. There's plenty of spin-off stories I have jotted down as possibilities for the future, but Dirt's focus is on the brothers.**

**So yes, Tess has finally arrived! As has the brothers' introduction to the world of Boston smuggling. But things are a long way from being comfortable for Joel and Tommy. Boston is not Baltimore. It won't be long before this hotbed of rebellion begins to threaten even the meager existence the brothers are just managing to eek out. Tune in next time as their fortunes begin to improve and Boston sees the first rumblings of an uncertain future.**


	21. Chapter 21 - Tito's Handmade Vodka

**Thank you everyone for your patience! It's been a long month as I got sucked into preparing for a big regional competition I represented my law school in two weekends ago, so unfortunately, real life had to take the front seat for a few weeks. Good news (for me, at least!) is I did well at regionals and am headed to nationals! That isn't for another month, however, so in the meantime, here's your long-awaited update! Good news (for you!) is it's another long one. :)**

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 21<span>

_May 15, 2019, Afternoon_

Like something foreign and alien, the static of a jazz record drifted out through the open door of 170 Salem Street. Several of the loiterers outside had drawn up plastic chairs and sat with their backs against the shop's front windows, their heads tipped back, making small talk as they listened to the rare, sweet sound of recorded music.

Above the propped open door, gold lettering was peeling away from the number _170_, and the door itself, once glass, was little more than a metal frame with two sheets of plywood thrown up over it. Yet, unlit signs for _Bud Light_ and _Budweiser_ still graced the one untouched window, as did a poster of a giant coffee cup, proudly proclaiming a bargain price of just 99 cents.

A bell above the door jangled as Tommy pushed his way into the former _Salem Mini Mart_ and found himself standing in a dark, narrow store, old shelves broken or pushed back against the walls to make a rough gathering area littered with metal chairs and card tables. A smattering of people were seated around the tables, most playing cards or smoking little rolled up joints of something that was probably supposed to pass as tobacco.

A couple of bored faces looked up at Tommy as he entered and stood blinking in the dim light, but at the far end of the shop, a man hunched over the old cashier's counter suddenly straightened.

"Hold it," the man said. His tone was not quite sharp, but it was far from friendly.

Instantly, a chill silence snuffed out the murmur of conversation in the shop. Only the jazz record drifted gently through the dusty air.

Tommy slowly raised his hands. The man behind the counter flicked a finger towards Tommy and a man and woman who had been playing cards beside the door immediately rose and flanked him. The man gave Tommy a quick pat down, checking the pockets and sleeves of his coat, before the woman gently pushed him forward.

As he neared the counter, Tommy's eyes grew more accustomed to the store's dim interior. He knew none of the faces at the tables that quietly turned away from him, but the man behind the counter he recognized.

"What do you want, Tommy?" Warren grunted as Tommy neared. A backwards ball cap covered the Firefly's bald head, but the round face and grim expression were undoubtedly those of one of the rebels Tommy and Joel had travelled with from Baltimore.

"One of those," Tommy replied, nodding towards the battery-powered CD player set on a shelf above the counter. It was currently rolling out the mellow hum of a saxophone.

Warren's expression did not change.

Tommy grew more serious. "I need to talk to Marlene."

The Firefly crossed his arms. He had been amiable and droll on their journey from Baltimore, but there was none of that in his demeanor now. "That a fact?" he replied. "Outta luck, Tommy. She doesn't need to talk to you."

"She does."

Annoyance flashed around the deep lines that circled Warren's mouth, but he only shook his head. "She's not interested in excuses, Tommy. She said if you showed up here, then just turn you around. We got no business with FEDRA sympathizers."

"I'm not a fuckin' sympathizer," Tommy growled. The accusation was not unexpected and he had not intended to bristle quite so much, but the hard look that Warren had fixed him with sent an angry hotness flushing up the back of his neck.

"Evidence to the contrary," Warren returned.

Tommy clenched his teeth. "From Alex? Alex was in Baltimore four months before Joel and me had to leave. He don't know even half of what we dealt with there."

"Sorry, Tommy," the Firefly shrugged. "Still ain't a risk we can take." To his credit, his tone did at least betray a sliver of regret.

"It's not a goddamn _risk_. Marlene told me about this place, didn't she? Three months ago. You had FEDRA knockin' on your door yet?"

Warren only shrugged again, though his expression became overly nonchalant. "Why should they? She told you you'd find help here if you needed it. Just a coupla down-and-outs helping a coupla other down-and-outs."

The store had gone quite still. Those gathered around the tables were all looking down at their hands, trying very hard to appear as if they were not listening.

Tommy's mouth became a thin line as he stood staring at Warren, acutely aware of the dusty, uncomfortable silence that yawned around them as a dozen sets of ears strained to hear the slightest sound.

"I came to talk," Tommy said slowly, instinctively lowering his voice, though he was certain every person in the shop could hear. "But Joel and me aren't goin' anywhere, Warren. If Marlene wants us _dealt with_ 'cause of some half-assed idea she has about thinkin' she knows who we are, you tell her she's gonna have to deal with us herself. Not try to set Tess or anybody else on us."

Warren had not uncrossed his arms, nor had his expression altered in the slightest. "What Marlene said to Tess, that wasn't personal."

"Bullshit."

"It _wasn't_," Warren returned, finally bristling. He set both hands on the counter and thumped one finger against the wooden surface to make his point. "We do business with Tess, with Troy. Like it or not, the report out of Baltimore flags you two as risks. For whatever reason, Tess doesn't seem to care, but if she _did_? If she found out we knew and didn't tell her? Fuck, Tommy. Do the math."

"I _am_ doin' the fuckin' math," Tommy growled. "And the math has got me and my brother standin' in the goddamn crosshairs. Marlene ever think about comin' to talk to me first, before rattin' to someone like Tess?"

In an instant, the air in the store became brittle and tense, even as Warren's expression hardened. A woman behind him reached up and quickly switched the radio off, dowsing the store in silence.

"Get the fuck out of here, Tommy," the Firefly snapped, all sympathy gone from his voice. "You think you know Boston? You think you know Marlene? Military gives exactly zero shits how many of our people they kill, or how they go about killing them. If we didn't shoot first and ask questions later, we'd all have been dead a long time ago."

"So ask some goddamn questions, now you've got off a shot against Joel and me," Tommy returned, feeling his frustration rise again. "Marlene knows we killed our handler in Baltimore. Tell me she don't wanna know why."

"She doesn't want to know why, Tommy."

"Bullshit."

Warren's lips pressed into a thin line and his eyes flicked to the silent spectators scattered around the shop. Then, as if his patience had abruptly ended, he gave a sharp sigh and reached into an inside coat pocket. In one swift movement, he had pulled a black pistol free and pointed it at Tommy's head.

"Walk away, Tommy."

Several people seated near the door abruptly stood and scuttled out of the store, the bell jangling as they pulled the door closed behind them. Others were looking nervously towards the exit as well, perched on the edges of their chairs as if ready to spring up at a moment's notice.

Tommy could only stare at the menacing black tip of Warren's pistol, the yawning hole of the barrel leering barely a hand's width from his face. He ignored the shiver that ran up the length of his spine and fought to keep his expression unchanged. After a second, he shook his head slowly.

"Guess it's guilty 'til proven innocent now, huh?"

Warren's only answer was to pull back the hammer of the pistol.

Tommy shook his head again. "Some fuckin' democracy you're fightin' for," he muttered.

Without another word, he turned away from the counter, trying very hard not to think about the gun still pointed at the back of his head. The faces at the tables were suddenly all turned away again as Tommy slowly began weaving around them, only the scraping of his boots against the floor breaking the silence. When he reached the door, he glanced back at Warren, who was still holding the pistol aloft.

"Tell her what I said," Tommy growled.

Then the bell jangled and he disappeared out onto the street beyond.

* * *

><p>Joel looked up as Tommy ducked into their shared tarp shelter. He stood with his back against an old bit of scaffolding, arms crossed, a frown creasing the weathered lines of his face. Tess was there as well, sprawled across Tommy's coffee table bed, her hands laced behind her head, lips pursed thoughtfully. Yet as soon as Tommy had pulled back a corner of the tarp, she was already sitting up, her prior thoughtfulness replaced by that strange mix of irritation and smugness that she had apparently mastered.<p>

"There he is," she snorted, rising and crossing her arms.

"What?" Tommy returned, fighting the urge to bristle at what had sounded like an accusation.

"Where you been?" Joel muttered, interrupting.

Tommy shrugged and pushed past Tess, absently checking his pockets for his QZ papers and knife as he seated himself on the coffee table. "Just lookin' around," he grumbled. "Been tryin' to get my bearin' in some of the other Areas, in case we ever get into a pinch somewhere that ain't Area 5."

Tess threw a smirk in Joel's direction. "Gotta give baby brother credit for brains."

Joel only looked annoyed and mildly embarrassed.

That was how it had been for the past two weeks. Tess had enlisted their services twice more since the Commercial Wharf job and, on both occasions, she had bluntly treated Joel as the decision maker for the two brothers and Tommy as the tagalong. The unified front that Joel had initially maintained with his brother, the two of them against the rest of Boston, was rapidly crumbling as Tommy and Tess traded barbed words and glares. Tommy tried to shake the disconcerting sense of familiarity in Joel's actions. It had been the same after Judge's death, when Joel had grown increasingly angry and embarrassed at Tommy's inability to assimilate to the ugly lifestyle that survival demanded.

"What d'you want?" Tommy muttered, glancing up at Tess with an unamused expression. He pulled out his pocketknife and flipped open the blade, absently using his fingernail to dig out dirt from the hinge.

"Got a pick-up job," she replied, all business in an instant. "Smugglers coming in from the outside, southern part of Area 5. They're outsiders, so they don't know the zone well. They get the goods past the wall. We get them past checkpoints and other Areas outside of 5."

Tommy's eyes flicked to Joel, who shrugged as if he found nothing objectionable about the job.

"What're we smugglin'?" Tommy said, looking back to Tess.

She smirked. "Booze."

Tommy snorted and rolled his eyes. "Oh goody. Least it ain't grenades this time."

"Way to see the bright side," she smiled.

He only shook his head and rolled his eyes again, but he did stand and snap his knife shut, sticking his hands into his jeans pockets. "How much you payin'?"

"We already talked about that," Joel interjected, pushing off the scaffolding he had been leaning again. "Five cards."

"Each?"

"Total."

Tommy's brow wrinkled and he made a face, fixing his brother with an incredulous look. "Where'd you learn to negotiate?"

"It's a fair deal," Joel said, bristling.

"Hey, are you two coming or not?" Tess suddenly said, impatiently shifting her weight and cocking her head to the side as if she hardly had time for a sibling spat.

"We're comin'," Joel answered, before Tommy could object. "Lead on." He waved her towards the loosely flapping tarp that formed the entrance to their meager abode.

Without another word, Tess led the way out of the shelter. Tommy gave a last shake of his head, grabbed a small flashlight from beneath the coffee table, and followed Joel out onto the street.

The slums wrapped around them as they trailed Tess. Despite the poverty that clogged its open spaces, Boston was becoming like an old glove. Its cracked streets and shattered windows no longer felt broken so much as they did weathered and resilient. The sound of flapping tarps and the smell of garbage lent a gritty sort of realness to the place, a grim reminder that you were still alive, despite it all. And even if the hollow faces that looked up to warily watch their passing were hardly friendly, there was something reassuring about them.

Too stubborn to die.

"Look at 'em," Joel muttered beside Tommy, keeping his voice low so Tess could not hear. At Tommy's questioning glance, Joel nodded to the faces turning their way. "They're watchin', Tommy. They're seein' us, with her."

Tommy snorted, rolling his eyes at his brother. "So? Five cards is still five cards, Joel. Fearsome reputation ain't gonna put food in our stomachs."

"Will eventually."

"Christ, if I didn't know better, I'd almost say that sounds like you're thinkin' long term for once."

"Knock it off, Tommy," Joel growled, glaring.

They lapsed into annoyed silence, neither looking at the other as they followed Tess.

Eventually, the three of them left the slums behind and entered an area where brick row houses gave way to brick apartment buildings and brick storefronts. The southeastern corner of Area 5 was defined by one of the rare breaks in Boston's relentless brick landscape, a gray granite building trimmed with square cornicing and extending the full length of several blocks. A 40-foot wall of metal and cement closed off the roads on either side of the granite bastion and its far corner housed a military watch post. This was not only the southeastern corner of Area 5, but of the Boston QZ as a whole.

Keeping to the side of the street where shadows would better obscure their faces, the three of them darted around a corner and left the granite building behind, instead approaching two long brick apartment blocks across the street. As they stepped into the narrow alleyway separating the two blocks, Tommy eyed the cement flower beds that had once lined the base of each building, now filled with only dry, hard dirt. Two rusting air conditioning units lay abandoned in the middle of the alley.

"Here we go," Tess grunted, heading for a door with peeling green paint. An iron gate that had once protected the door had been ripped from its hinges and left on the ground, and across the door itself was a military door-sealing device not-so-fondly referred to as the rack.

It was a green and yellow box stamped with _U.S. ARMY_ across the front and designed to bar the door from being opened. Two flat chain belts extended out from the top and bottom of the box, connected to metal plates that had been drilled into the top and bottom of the door, securing it first to the ground and then to the top of the doorjamb. The contraptions had the vague appearance of a person being stretched over a medieval torture rack, thus their nickname. Any door barred with a rack was like some sick reverse of the Biblical Passover; a silent message that _Here There Be Plague_.

Yet the bolts that had once secured this rack to the ground and doorjamb had been wrenched free, leaving only the appearance that the door was barred.

"It's clean," Tess muttered, waving them to follow as she opened the door. "No need for masks."

As they entered a narrow entry hall with a wall of dull bronze mail slots, Tess closed the door behind them and swung a small shoulder pack off her back. She rummaged for a second, then pulled forth two black pistols.

Tommy recognized one of them. The .40 he had taken off of Colonel Breslen in Baltimore.

"I believe these are yours," Tess said, handing them to Joel and Tommy. "Troy said it was probably time to give them back."

"Generous of him," Joel muttered dryly, accepting one of the proffered guns and checking the safety.

"He's a generous guy. Southern hospitality and that."

"Yeah," Tommy murmured with heavy sarcasm. "We got a nice taste of that alright." He tested the familiar weight of Breslen's pistol in his hand, popping out the double magazine and counting cartridges before clapping it back into place and pulling back the slide, chambering a round. He almost smiled, a strange sense of relief tickling the back of his neck.

"You expectin' trouble?" Joel asked as he tucked his pistol into his back waistband and pulled the back of his shirt over it to hide the bulge.

Tess shrugged. "Not with the guys we're meeting. But this close to the wall and a military watch post? Not taking any chances."

She waved for them to follow again and led the way up a narrow stairwell. The stairway was all gray cement floors and walls with peeling white paint, but as they reached the second floor, they began to pass black doors with silver numbers leading to apartments. Several doors were open, revealing ransacked rooms with cobwebs hanging from the ceiling, but Tess only stopped once they reached the third floor.

At apartment number _311_, Tess paused and raised a hand. She knocked twice slowly, then three times quickly, then twice quickly again. A second later, the deadbolt on the door slid back and the door opened a crack.

A black man stared out at them, probably around Tess's age, sporting a shaved head and a scratched pair of glasses.

"Tess," the man said, smiling. He nodded and stepped back, pushing open the door and gesturing for Tess to come in.

"Hey Donny," she said, nodding in return and giving a small smile. She stepped into the apartment, then waved towards Joel and Tommy. "Donny, this is Joel and Tommy. They're new to town, been doing some work for me. Boys, this is Donovan."

"Hey, how you doin'," Donovan greeted, surprisingly convivial as he reached out and shook first Joel's hand, then Tommy's. "Welcome to Boston, I guess."

As Donovan closed the door behind them, Tommy glanced around the apartment. It had been left largely barren, but a large hole had been blown out in one wall, creating an opening into the adjoining apartment. Wood and plaster were scattered across the floor. Leaning against a wall in the far corner, however, were four other men, all with Donovan's same dark skin and long face. All looked his age or younger. One of them was hardly a man at all; Tommy guessed the kid couldn't have been a day older than 15.

"Oh hey, these are my brothers," Donovan said, catching Tommy's glance towards the others. "Terrence, Eli, Gabriel, and Mark." Each of them nodded in turn.

"You got the goods?" Tess said, lifting her brows.

"Hell yeah," he grinned.

"Good man," she said, returning the grin. "Come on then."

Donovan jerked a thumb towards the apartment kitchen and Tess and the others followed. Several boxes were set on the kitchen counter and linoleum floor, and as Tommy flicked on his flashlight, the light glinted off the tops of dusty bottles.

"Oh, me likey," Tess smiled, kneeling and pulling a bottle out of one of the boxes. It was half full of a clear liquid and a yellowing label read _Tito's Handmade Vodka_.

"Aw fuck," Tommy said, unable to stop himself from smiling as a disbelieving snort escaped him. "That's an Austin drink. Christ, Joel, it's Tito's."

Even Joel allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch into a half-smile. "Yeah, I see it," he rumbled.

"Where the hell'd you find that?" Tommy asked, turning to Donovan.

The smuggler just shrugged, grinning. "Got my ways." He tapped a finger against his chest. "You want good booze from outside the walls, you come to us."

"Oh please," Tess smirked, dropping the bottle back into the box. "They couldn't afford it. Come on, boys. You get this shit where I need it to go in one piece, I'll let you each have a swig of that Tito's."

Donovan waved towards his brothers. "C'mon guys, help 'em out. Markie, you watch the street."

The youngest of Donovan's brothers took up a post at the window, warily watching the street below with the over-seriousness of a 15-year-old, but the other three grabbed backpacks and joined Joel and Tommy in the kitchen. They had brought rags with them, which they used to wrap each of the dusty bottles before carefully arranging them into the backpacks that Joel, Tommy, and Tess would carry. Mostly the two sets of brothers worked in silence, occasionally eyeing each other with watchful sidelong glances as Tess and Donovan stood on the other side of the room, speaking quietly as they exchanged a handful of ration cards.

"So, you guys are from the outside too?" Tommy finally said, keeping his voice low and conversational. He wrapped a hand towel around a bottle of merlot.

All three of Donovan's brothers looked up, their dark skin making their wide eyes look especially wary. But the oldest of them, Terrence, nodded after a second, leading the other two to relax and return to their work.

"You?" Terrence returned.

Tommy nodded. "Same. Just been here about three months. Been in a coupla other zones, but spent a lotta time on the outside."

Terrence grunted an acknowledgement, but quickly lapsed back into silence. His mannerisms and speech were sharp and hurried, as if he were strung tight like a caged animal. It was oddly, uncomfortably familiar. Tommy recalled feeling something rather similar when they had first been dragged into Baltimore.

"Why do you guys stay on the outside, if you know how to get in here?" Tommy asked.

Terrence glanced back up with wide eyes for a second, then shrugged. "Donny doesn't. He comes here a lot. To work out deals."

It wasn't really an answer to Tommy's question, but he only shook his head and gently placed a wrapped bottle into his backpack, resolved not to push the tight-lipped brothers any further. Yet a second later, Terrence spoke again.

"People recognize us," he said, bringing Tommy's glance up again. "I mean, not _us_. People like us. Outsiders. If you been outside the walls too long. People recognize that. Better just do things our way. Outside. Like we been doing."

Tommy nodded slowly and felt his lips part, but could think of no reply.

"How'd you get in?" Terrence asked.

Tommy cleared his throat. "Uh, Fireflies owed us a favor," he said. "They got us smuggled in here, set us up with papers."

"You're with the Fireflies?"

"No, just know 'em." Tommy paused, then shrugged. "Not even that anymore, really. But they got us in here, at least."

Terrence nodded. "Wanna steer clear of them, probably. Something big comin' down."

At that, Tommy looked up again, brow wrinkling. He held a bottle of half-wrapped rum, but ignored packing it for a moment. "What makes you say that?"

"What other smugglers are saying," Terrence shrugged. "Say they been bringin' in heavy stuff lately. For the Fireflies. Like maybe Fireflies ain't just gonna do little stuff no more."

Tommy thought of the guns and grenades they had helped to smuggle in a few weeks ago, and he noticed Joel shoot him a silent glance that suggested his brother was thinking the same. "Like what?" Tommy pressed. "Like go head-to-head with the military? Street war?"

Again, Terrence only shrugged. "Maybe."

Sensing he would get nothing further from the alcohol smuggler, Tommy drifted into silence and distractedly returned to wrapping the bottle of rum. His mind drummed through the possibilities as he worked, imagining Boston's streets like an old war movie, rebel fighters taking cover behind heaps of rubble and broken furniture, trading gunfire with German soldiers in green-gray jackets and black collars. After a moment, he shook his head and sighed, trying to ignore the creeping sense of anticipation that murmured in his stomach at the image.

"Donny! Donny! HAZMATs!"

The sudden cry came from Donovan's youngest brother, Mark, who was urgently tapping the window he had been standing at. For a second, all those gathered in the room simply looked up, eyes snapping towards Mark. Then, with the scrape of a half dozen boots, everyone was moving towards the windows that looked down onto the alley below. Tommy and Joel pulled back a light green curtain on one of the windows, straining to get a look outside.

Jogging up the alley were half a dozen soldiers in white HAZMAT suits and masks, oxygen tanks on their backs and assault rifles in their hands.

"God_damnit_!" Tess spat, whipping away from the window. "Joel, Tommy, finish packing, _right now!_"

Leaving off the window, Joel and Tommy quickly knelt again and began wrapping the remaining bottles with all speed. Eli and Gabriel joined them, but Terrence pounded across the room to a pile of packs and guns that the five brothers had gathered into a corner. Donovan was lifting a hunting rifle, checking the scope and safety, and Tess had a revolver out, held at her side as she eased open the apartment door and listened for sounds on the stairwell below.

"They're inside!" Mark hissed, still standing at the window and watching the street.

"Tess!" Terrence suddenly barked. There was the clicking sound of a lighter, and a second later, a whoosh of flame as a Molotov cocktail roared to life in the smuggler's hand. He tossed the flaming bottle towards Tess, who, in one fluid motion, caught the bottle, wrenched the door open, and sent the firebomb flying towards the first floor stairway below. A breathless second and suddenly the sound of shattering glass brought cries of pain and surprise echoing up the stairway.

"Are you _fucking done yet?_" Tess yelled as she retreated back into the apartment, revolver still pointed at the open door.

"Almost, goddamnit!" Joel growled in response, ramming a wrapped bottle into his backpack.

"Eli, Gabe, c'mon! Let them finish, we got company to deal with!" Donovan barked, waving towards his brothers. They left off packing the alcohol and scrambled back across the room, retrieving rifles that resembled the one Donovan carried. Tess, Donovan, and his brothers all took up positions behind couches and other pieces of furniture, weapons trained on the door, as Joel and Tommy frantically worked in the kitchen to pack the remaining bottles of booze.

Suddenly from the entrance to the apartment came a metallic click and a dull thump. Tommy looked up over the kitchen counter and spotted a small metal canister rolling in the doorway. A second later, it flashed and ignited, pouring a thick plume of choking white smoke into the apartment.

Blinking against the blinding flash, Tommy dove behind the counter and put his back against a couple of cupboards, covering his mouth and nose with a sleeve. Joel was on one knee, backpacks and alcohol forgotten as he risked a glance over the kitchen counter, his pistol held in one hand. Tommy fished his own pistol out from his rear waistband and twisted to look around the kitchen cupboard towards the doorway.

They could hear the smoke bomb still hissing, but the smoke had rapidly engulfed the small apartment. It was thickest around the entrance, yet still like a heavy fog as it reached into the kitchen and swept around the couches that Tess and the others crouched behind.

Without warning, Tommy felt the floorboards shake with the pounding of boots. From the white smoke emerged figures in white suits and masks, rifles held aloft. Where the first shot came from, Tommy could not tell, but suddenly the air was thick with the sound of gunfire, so deafening in such a compact space that Tommy's ears were ringing in an instant.

Tommy's pistol leapt in his hand as he fired from around the side of the kitchen cabinets, crouched on the floor. Above him, Joel was standing, firing over the top of the counter, head and shoulders exposed. Amidst the smoke and the plastic white suits that the soldiers wore, Tommy could not tell how many there were, but they seemed to pour into the apartment as rapidly as the smoke. Wood splinters exploded around Tommy and he could see puffs of gray stuffing fly up from the couches that Donovan and the rest of them were using as cover.

Yet the soldiers' only cover was the smoke with which they blended. Even if Tommy could not clearly see them all, he did at least know the direction of the door. As did the others. Soldiers stumbled to the ground, blood splattering their white suits and scattering across the apartment carpet. Joel once fired and the plastic face shield of a soldier's mask exploded, blood and bone suddenly coating the inside as the soldier dropped to the ground.

One of the soldiers crouched on hands and knees, a hand held to his abdomen. A crack from Donovan's high-powered rifle and suddenly the yellow oxygen tank on the soldier's back was spewing a trail of gas and violently whipping the soldier in a zig-zag pattern across the floor, helpless as the tank took off like a rocket and dragged the unfortunate soldier with it.

Tommy felt his pistol click and the slide kicked back and stuck, indicating the magazine was empty. Yet a second later, the deafening clatter of automatic gunfire abruptly stopped. Tommy darted a glance out from behind the kitchen cupboards again. The smoke had just begun to dissipate, and on the ground around the doorway were a scatter of bloody white suits. The oxygen tank that had been pierced by Donovan's shot was fizzling weakly beneath a broken china cabinet, having finally ripped free of its wearer, who now lay groaning in the doorway.

A radio crackled through the smoke. "_—casualties, number unknown! Reinforcements requested, effective immediately!_ _Hostiles have not been neutralized! Repeat! Hostiles have _not_ been neutralized!_"

"Tess!" Joel suddenly yelled. He was bleeding from a scratch above his temple, likely the product of flying splinters.

"I'm here!"

"We gotta move, now!"

"I _know_, goddamnit!"

Tess emerged from behind a loveseat that had been torn to shreds by gunfire. She quickly pounded across the apartment and joined the two brothers in the kitchen. "Is everything packed?" she said, breathless but still clearly in control.

"Yeah," Tommy nodded, then held up his empty pistol. "But I'm out."

"Same," Joel echoed, also holding up his gun.

Tess clenched her jaw and grabbed one of the backpacks, zippering it shut. "Then let's not get into any more firefights, shall we?"

Joel and Tommy nodded in unison and each grabbed one of the two remaining backpacks.

"Oh _fuck_ no!"

The cry came from Donovan. Backpacks on, Tess, Joel, and Tommy entered the living room again and came round the couch behind which Donovan was still crouched. He was on his knees, a hand pushing against Terrence's chest, who was splayed on his back at an awkward angle, two gaping bullet holes punched into his abdomen. Terrence's eyes were open, but they were glassy and sightless.

"Terrence, Terr, c'mon bud," Donovan was saying, his face twisting and shaking, silent tears beginning slide out from beneath his glasses. "C'mon, Terr. Terrence, c'mon. We gotta go, we gotta go, bud."

Donovan's other brothers were gathered around, mouths agape and expressions unbelieving. They stood without moving, rifles held uselessly at their sides.

Tess shot Tommy and Joel a look that was at once hard and sympathetic, and she let out a pinched sigh. Kneeling, she placed a hand on Donovan's shoulder.

"Donny, he's gone," she said, surprisingly gentle, if firm. "He's gone, Donny. You need to get the rest of you out of here."

Donovan ignored her, still weakly pushing at his dead brother's chest. "Terrence. Terrence. Come on, man. Get the fuck up, kid."

"Donovan!" Tess said, more sharply this time. That seemed to snap him out of his stupor, for he looked up, mouth open, cheeks slick, shoulders shaking. "He's _gone_, Donny," Tess repeated.

He slowly nodded, taking several deep breaths. Hand still shaking, he pushed up his glasses and thumbed at his eyes, trying to rub away tears. "Jesus fucking Christ," he mumbled, swallowing thickly as he composed himself. He gave Terrence's chest a final parting pat, sighed around clenched teeth, then pushed himself to his feet.

Nodding sharply, Tess spun around and immediately started for the door, waving for Joel and Tommy to follow. As the three of them stepped over dead soldiers and shuffled onto the landing, they heard the distinctive sound of boots on the stairs below.

"More coming!" Tess hissed back into the apartment.

Donovan and his brothers had all thrown their packs on again and stood with their rifles at the ready. Suddenly Donovan pointed at the three of them, then upwards, as if indicating they head for the roof. Then he tapped his own chest and pointed towards the blown out wall that led into the adjoining apartment.

"Leads to a different stairway!" he whispered, still clearly fighting a quiver in his voice.

Tess nodded in agreement. "Let me know you made it out!" she hissed back.

"Likewise!"

Splitting off, Donovan and his remaining brothers headed for the adjoining apartment. Tess glanced down the stairs, through the gap between the stairways that allowed her to see to the bottom. She pulled back with an angry grunt, then turned to start up the stairs towards the roof. Before she had taken two steps, however, the soldier who had previously been left groaning in agony on the floor of the apartment, groaned again, weakly struggling to extricate himself from the pile of his dead comrades.

Tess spun around, eyes narrowing. "Joel," she whispered sharply, gesturing back towards the apartment.

Without a word, Joel turned and knelt, roughly ripping the mask off the dying soldier. A man with a red mustache and heavy stubble stared wide-eyed up at him, face contorted in pain. "Please," he murmured.

Joel glanced back at Tess, who only shook her head. "He knows our faces," she said coldly.

Nodding, Joel looked back to the man, the lines around his eyes pinching together. In one swift movement, he lifted a boot and brought it crashing down. The soldier had just time to give a helpless cry before Joel's boot caved in his skull, crunching bone in a spray of blood and gray matter.

When he looked up again, Tess raised her brows as if impressed. Tommy suddenly tasted something bitter at the back of his throat. But Joel's expression remained unchanged.

"C'mon," he muttered, pushing Tommy up the stairs as Tess turned and began racing upward.

Taking steps two at a time and gripping the handrails to keep from being unbalanced by the slosh of the liquid in their backpacks, the three of them quickly pounded up the three remaining floors of the building. By the time they reached the top and had bulled their way through the door leading onto the roof, they were each breathing heavily, faces red and sweaty. Gravel crunched beneath their boots as they slammed the door shut behind them and rammed a slab of discarded plywood under the handle.

"Well, this is nice," Tommy said dryly, surveying the rooftops around them. It was nothing but a flat expanse. No escape.

"Shut up," Tess snapped. She quickly crossed the roof until she stood nearly at the edge, looking down at the second brick apartment block. "There," she said, pointing down.

Suddenly skeptical, Tommy shuffled toward the edge and Joel followed a second later. The alleyway yawned five floors beneath them, but Tess wasn't pointing towards the ground. She was pointing towards several long sets of metal balconies on the lower floors of the adjoining apartment block.

"No fuckin' way," Tommy snorted, incredulous. Tess fixed him with an iron stare. "Are you fuckin' serious?" he sputtered.

"No way we make that jump," Joel growled, brow wrinkling as he glared over the lip of the building roof.

"We can with enough of a running start," Tess replied. Absent from her tone was any of the usual snide sarcasm. She was perfectly serious.

Suddenly the roof door shook behind them, jittering as someone pounded against it from within.

"More to the point, no way we make it against _that_," Tess snorted, hooking a thumb back towards the door. She glanced over the side of the building once more, then jogged backwards several paces.

"Don't break any of my goddamn bottles," she muttered, and then she was in motion. Her boots slid over gravel as she started to sprint. Joel and Tommy stared at her wide-eyed as they stepped back, clearing her way. She hit the edge of the building and launched herself outward, hands flying out in front of her as she quickly lost airspeed and altitude, plummeting towards the ground.

But she had gauged the angle right. From five floors up, she dropped towards one of the metal balconies on the second floor of the adjoining building, slamming into the railing with a cry of pain, but nonetheless finding purchase as she hooked her elbows over the side of the balcony. She swung a leg up and over and rolled onto the metal balcony bottom, clutching her stomach.

"Come on!" she called back up to them, though she sounded badly winded. "Like a leaf on the wind!"

"Fuck that," Tommy snorted in disbelief, only loud enough for Joel to hear. "She dropped like a goddamn bowling ball."

"C'mon, Tommy," Joel growled. "You next!"

Rolling his eyes as if he could hardly believe what he was about to do, Tommy shook his head and backpedalled quickly. "You're buyin' me a whole goddamn bottle of Tito's if this works," he gritted, pointing at his brother.

Joel actually gave a half-grin. "Only if we live through this, baby brother."

"Then you better not die!" Clenching his teeth, Tommy put on a burst of speed and barreled towards the building edge. Gravel gave way to the brick lip and Tommy pushed off from it with one final curse before he was flying through the air. There was no dramatic stillness before the plummet, no moment to catch his breath. He fell fast and steady, his breath torn from his lungs and his stomach leaping into the back of his throat. Wind whipped his hair wildly around him and billowed out the bottom of his jacket as he free-fell towards the ground. The metal balcony approached far quicker than he had expected, suddenly rising before him almost before he had had a chance to stretch out his hands in front of him.

The railing met his ribcage with a crunch and a spike of pain, so hard that he almost felt like spilling his breakfast to the ground below. But then Tess was there, grabbing him by the wrists and hauling him over the edge. He tumbled to the metal grate that formed the balcony's bottom and lay back, gingerly holding his splitting mid-section.

"You are fuckin' insane," he groaned.

Tess flashed a wicked grin, though she looked in significant pain herself. "Why do you think I'm alive? Live and learn, Little Texas." She reached down and helped pull him to his feet.

A second later, Joel's form appeared at the top of the building above them, launching into the air and dropping with terrifying speed. He hit the balcony lower than Tommy had, one hand finding solid purchase on the railing, but the other ramming into it at an awkward angle with a popping sound and a grunt of pain from Joel. Together, Tommy and Tess hauled him over the edge.

"A couple broken ribs and a broken thumb," Tess wheezed, hunching over. "Not too bad for a day's work. No broken bottles?"

"I ain't stoppin' to find out," Joel muttered, voice guttural as he spoke through clenched teeth.

"Fair enough." Tess drew near to the window that looked out onto the balcony. She pulled out her revolver and looked away, shielding her eyes as she suddenly swung the butt of the gun handle hard and fast at the glass. On the first hit, the window shook. On the second, it cracked, a spider web of hair-thin lines spreading away from the impact point. On the third, it shattered, glass falling through the balcony bottom and tinkling to the ground beneath.

Tommy looked across the street towards the building they had left behind. He could see white suits through the glare of the windows.

"Come on," Tess hissed, waving to the brothers before she swung a leg through the broken window and disappeared into the apartment within.

"Guess this means I owe you a Tito's," Joel muttered, grimacing as he glanced sidelong at Tommy.

Tommy shook his head, half-smirking as he turned to follow Tess.

"Guess it does."

* * *

><p>The sun was just setting as they returned to the slums, backpacks empty after having delivered to Tess's buyers. Long shadows draped across the tops of tarps that had been dyed a russet orange by the sinking sun and the smell of wood smoke and meager dinners filled the air. A group of teenagers tossed chunks of stale bread into a watery white broth, while three old men in long jackets roasted what looked like a rat on a wire baking rack placed over a fire built within a big spaghetti pot.<p>

And everywhere, people glanced up as they passed. Several even nodded.

Tommy let his gaze slide away from the people on either side of them, instead glancing at the back of Tess's head where she walked ahead of him and Joel. Maybe Joel had been right. Even if they were only earning the respect of slum-dwellers, that respect could carry them quite a way in a place like this.

"Okay, boys, this is where I leave you," Tess said, pausing at an intersection of two roads and jerking a thumb in the direction she was headed. "You two think you're safe getting home without an escort?"

Joel pursed his lips and rolled his eyes. "We'll manage."

"Good," she replied, smirking. She dug into a pocket and pulled out a wad of ration cards, counting a few off the top and handing them to Joel.

His brow wrinkled as he counted the cards. "There's eight cards here."

Tess only shrugged. "Call it hazard pay," she said, nodding at Joel's left hand, which was wrapped in medical tape to stabilize his broken thumb, and to Tommy, who still held a hand gingerly to his broken ribs.

Joel lifted a brow.

"What?" Tess muttered. "You want a Purple Heart too?"

At that, Joel gave a small smile and shook his head. He held the cards up appreciatively. "Thanks."

"Thank you two. You did good today. Both of you." For once, her expression had dropped its usual smugness. After a second, she gave a small sigh and her lips pressed together. "Shame about Terrence…He was a good guy. Deserved better than that." Then she shook her head. "Don't we all. Anyway, thanks again, boys."

"You gonna be okay, with that?" Tommy said, nodding towards Tess's mid-section. Like him, she still held a hand to her ribcage and walked with a noticeable hunch, never breathing too deeply.

"I'll be fine," she smirked. "As will you two, I imagine."

"I imagine," Joel rumbled, nodding lightly.

"Well in that case—" Tess said, beginning to turn and wave them off in farewell. But she paused, eyes narrowing on something behind Joel and Tommy.

"Marlene," she said sharply.

The brothers spun, both immediately tensing. Joel's hand deftly swept towards his rear waistband, despite the fact that the pistol there was empty.

The Firefly had stepped out from a dark doorway, her face still obscured by the long shadows of the setting sun. She wore a faded purple jacket, a tear in one sleeve, hands thrust into the pockets.

"Tess," Marlene said, nodding. Her eyes darted to Joel and Tommy, then back to Tess. "Mind if I have a word with these two?"

Tess lifted a brow, looking between Marlene and the brothers as if she were a tired playground monitor done with breaking up fights. "Just don't kill them," she muttered, rolling her eyes as she pushed past Marlene. "They're proving useful."

They watched her leave, and when she was gone, Joel and Tommy turned back to look at Marlene. The Firefly crossed her arms.

"What the hell do you want?" Joel growled, jaw tightening.

"Ask Tommy," Marlene replied, tipping her head to the side with an unamused expression. "He's the one who came looking for me."

Joel's brows drew together and he shot Tommy a sharp sidelong glance.

Tommy ground his teeth together, glaring at Marlene. "And Warren said you weren't interested in listenin'."

A disbelieving sound escaped Joel and he threw a hand into the air. "God_damnit_, Tommy. I told you talkin' to them wouldn't do a damn bit of good. Why the hell'd you go lookin' for 'em?"

"Because he's not _you_," Marlene said, unable to keep a hint of derision from her voice.

Anger hardened the lines around Joel's mouth and eyes and he suddenly stepped forward, bullying Marlene back into the dark recess of the doorway until her back hit one of the brick walls. Yet oddly, as Joel made as if to put his forearm to her throat, Marlene reached up not to stop him, but to hold her hand up in the air, palm open.

As if warding someone away.

Joel's eyes narrowed and his twisted around, eyes following the direction of Marlene's outstretched hand. Atop the roof of one of the buildings looming over the street was a person in a ski mask, staring straight at them through the scope of a hunting rifle.

An annoyed look crossed Joel's face and he ground his front teeth together, but he lifted his hands and backed away from Marlene, shaking his head. "So, what do you want then?" he growled again.

Marlene lowered her hand and shot Joel an impatient glare, but it was to Tommy that she trained her gaze. "Tell me what Alex didn't know."

Tommy's eyes narrowed. "_Now_ you wanna know?"

"Now I want to know," she replied, without elaboration.

Tommy let his lips part and glanced at his brother, but he took a slow breath and released it. "Our handler was a man called Breslen," he started, cautiously at first. "You tell Alex to ask any gravedigger about him. He knew we were dealin' business with some of Baltimore's gangs, just little shit on the side to get a few extra cards each week. He also knew we were lookin' after a coupla folks."

"Jan and Annie," Marlene said. "Alex mentioned them."

"Nah. Jan, yes, but Annie could take care of herself. But yeah, Jan and a kid, Percy. They were…kinda family, I guess."

Joel grunted and crossed his arms, eyes wandering warily to the gunman atop the building.

Tommy gave a pinched sigh, still slowly grinding his clenched teeth. "Military didn't like the rebel groups movin' in on the zone. So Breslen dragged us in, bloodied us up, and threatened to kill Jan and Percy if we didn't start feedin' him information."

"Threatened to kill an old woman and a kid?" Marlene said, lifting a skeptical brow.

"He would've," Joel muttered. "Think Boston's finest wouldn't do the same to get at your little militia?"

She didn't answer.

"So yeah," Tommy continued, glaring. "We fed him information. Enough to keep him happy, nothin' more. But the attack on the Commander's compound? That was real. So was us killin' Breslen. Comin' up here was the only way to get out from under that."

Marlene pursed her lips and gave no immediate reply. She stared at Tommy for a long time, so long that he was certain she was running the scenarios in her head, processing and analyzing information, calculating risk. When she finally did move, it was only to draw in a slow breath and release it.

"Fine," she said, uncrossing her arms. Without another word, she pushed past Joel and Tommy.

Lips parting, Tommy turned with her as she passed him. "What, that's it?" he said. "If that's somethin' you're so willin' to believe, why all this shoot first, ask questions later bullshit? What if Tess had shot us right there when you told her?"

Marlene turned back to look at them. Her expression was still hard, but Tommy noticed for the first time that her eyes looked more tired than angry. He almost expected her to sigh and rub her temples.

"I deal with what I'm given, Tommy," she said, voice tight. "And right now, that means shoot first, ask questions if there's anyone left standing. We're fighting for the world we want. Doesn't mean we're there yet."

Joel only snorted and rolled his eyes, but Tommy felt his irritation abruptly subside. He eyed the Firefly.

"Kinda like workin' for your enemy 'til you got a chance to kill him, huh?"

The lines between Marlene's brows released just a fraction and the corner of her mouth shifted, regarding Tommy for a second. "Something like that."

"Hey," he said, before Marlene could turn away again. "Word on the street is that the Fireflies are bringin' in some heavy stuff."

She lifted a brow, eyes narrowing with sudden suspicion, but Tommy raised his hands. "I ain't lookin' for information. Ain't lookin' to confirm rumors." He shook his head. "I just…figured you oughta know. People are noticin'."

Marlene slowly drew her head back, chin jutting out as she regarded the two brothers with that unwavering analytical stare, allowing the seconds to crawl by in tense silence. And then she nodded, sharply and abruptly, as she turned away again.

"Good," she muttered, pleased. And then she was gone.

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks for reading and reviewing! Again, apologies for the lengthy wait, but as always, remember to check my profile page for regular progress reports about when I expect to have a new chapter up and when I unexpectedly get delayed. Similarly, remember you can also Follow this story or me as an author, so you get an email as soon as I post a new update.<br>**

**As to this chapter itself, a curious aside for anyone interested. It has always been my intent, unless I expressly state otherwise, that any TLoU stories I write are to be internally consistent with each other, i.e. occurring all within the same universe. For example, if I were ever to write a stand-alone fic about Joel or Tommy or Tess or whoever, I would write as if their life events portrayed in Dirt are also the same in any stand-alone fic. To that end, for the curious who have read or intend to read my only other TLoU fic - Dregs, a one short - the Donny that Tess mentions in Dregs is the same Donny you meet in this chapter. This is also the same "Donovan" marked on Joel's Boston Q.Z. Map in the game. The brief scene portrayed in Dregs has not yet occurred in the Dirt timeline, but I will let you know in an Author's Note when it does. Interesting tidbits. :)**

**Next update should be within my usual two week time frame, perhaps sooner. Check my profile for progress reports. Tune in next time as the Fireflies increasingly step out of the shadows and FEDRA's iron grip on Boston tightens, sweeping our brothers up as collateral along the way!**


	22. Chapter 22 - The Rat

**Fair warning, this chapter is fairly heavy in terms of content. Not heavier than we saw in the game, but heavier than you might be accustomed to in this story. It's also my longest to date! So grab the popcorn. ;)**

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 22<span>

_February 14, 2020, Dawn_

It was just before dawn that the world felt most empty. When the sky was still gray and turning milky white, and the glare of the lights on the walls had been doused as sunrise approached. When the streets below were still empty and silent, and even the seagulls on the docks had not yet roused themselves for the day. Up here, atop a roof that looked out across the squalor of the quarantine zone and the desolation of Boston's shattered downtown, Tommy could almost believe he was the last man on earth.

He leaned back on the rear two legs of a rusty metal chair, boots braced against the corroded railing that circled the edge of the apartment building roof on which he sat. The shadow of an old water tower loomed above him, blocking the light from the rising sun, and snow from the week previous was still piled in drifts against the air duct units that dotted the rooftop.

If he was honest with himself, it was too cold to be up here. An icy breeze blew across the roof, making Tommy pull his stocking cap down over his ears and bury his chin into the thick scarf he wore. But Boston's cold was like the specter of disease or starvation; no longer something exceptional or terrifying, only a reality to be borne.

Tommy pressed the back of a coat sleeve under his nose and coughed, fighting the cold that was settling in his chest. On a tiny folding table beside him, steam curled up from a chipped mug filled with a darkish liquid. It was little more than hot water with a splash of cheap vanilla, and it tasted just as thin and unsatisfying as it sounded, but it was warm. As he wrapped his hands around the mug and took a sip, Tommy felt a shiver creep down his back and a tingle of feeling work its way back into his raw nose and cheeks.

He closed his eyes, drinking in the silence. It felt as if his mind were clearing out the cobwebs, wiping clean a new slate for the day. Up here, for just a few seconds, Tommy could actually believe there was nothing wrong with the world.

The metallic groan and slam of the rooftop door snapped him out of his reverie. He straightened, dropping his feet from the railing and letting all four chair legs thump back into the gravel that covered the roof. He turned in the direction of the door, setting the chipped mug back atop the table and plunging a hand into a coat pocket, fingers wrapping around the grip of Breslen's old gun. He flicked the safety off.

Gravel crunched as a man emerged around one of the air duct units, clad in a heavy winter coat and stocking cap and carrying a black rifle over one shoulder. Troy had a thumb hooked into the gun strap over his shoulder and his other hand dug deep into a coat pocket for warmth, but he ground to a halt as soon as he looked up, tensing as he suddenly caught sight of Tommy.

Tommy relaxed, flipping his pistol safety back on.

Troy's eyes narrowed with irritation. "What the hell are you doin' here?" he grunted, starting forward again.

"Could ask you the same," Tommy said as he settled back into his chair.

"I live here."

"So do I now, remember?"

The big man frowned and grunted again, as if having been reminded of an annoyance he had happily forgotten. "Yeah."

Fresh dirt stained the elbows of his coat and the knees of his pant legs. He leaned forward and swung the rifle off his shoulder, propping it against the railing that circled the rooftop before reaching into the inside pocket of his coat. He withdrew a handful of what looked like limp and battered cigarettes. Real ones, not the homemade joints packed full of dried oak and maple leaves that scammers on the street tried to sell.

"Y'know," Troy grumbled, sticking one of the cigarettes between his lips and cupping his hands around a lighter. "Most folks know I come up here. Know to leave the roof alone."

Tommy lifted a brow, unimpressed. "Good for them."

Smoke curled up from the cigarette as Troy shot him a tired glare.

They had been a week in this apartment building, Joel and Tommy, having finally left Boston's slums and moved into an apartment in the same building that Troy called home. It was a cramped place, just a single bedroom and a kitchen with a tiny dining area, but it was dry and a good deal warmer than the tarp city. As far as FEDRA was concerned, the apartment was still assigned to a woman named Lilian Hemmer. The hole from the bullet that Lilian had used to take her own life was still bored into the bedroom wall.

Without a word to Tommy, Troy leaned forward and set a boot against the lower rung of the rooftop railing, pulling a small flask of what looked like whiskey from a pocket as he stared out across the tops of buildings, towards the gray giants of Boston's bombed out skyscrapers in the distance.

Tommy glanced up at him as he unscrewed the top of the bottle and took a swig. Troy had never struck Tommy as much older than him, but in truth, the smuggler had to be nearing 50 by now, or at least he looked it. Gray had crept into his thick black beard, at the jowls and around his lips, and broken veins scattered across his cheeks. This morning especially, Troy looked haggard and worn, his eyes red and face sallow.

"Jesus," Tommy muttered. "How long you been drinkin', Troy?"

"Only just started," he rumbled, voice rough. "Been up all night on a job."

"Wall job?"

"Mm."

Tommy retrieved his mug from the table and took a sip, lip curling at the watery blandness that had now lost much of its redeeming warmth. He gestured towards the skyscrapers in the distance. "You ever get into the city?" he asked. "Downtown, I mean."

Troy shook his head, waving away a haze of acrid, stale cigarette smoke. "Not if I can help it. Closest I get is the Goldstone buildin'." He pointed. "That big one leanin' there. There's a big sewage grate lets out right next to it, useful for gettin' in and out under the streets."

Tommy hardly needed to search for the building that Troy meant. It was one of the tallest buildings in the distant skyline, a square mass of steel and broken windows, leaning precariously to the left. Given a few years, it was likely to come crashing down, or else fall into another skyscraper that stood beside it, nearly as tall but with its upper floors obliterated.

"You ever need any help?" Tommy said.

Troy snorted and shook his head. "Not from you."

Tommy pressed his lips together, temper vaguely pricked by Troy's relentless avoidance of any work even remotely connected to either Tommy or Joel. The smuggler tolerated their presence, provided he could spit the odd spiteful comment their way, but unless Tess dragged the three of them together, Troy rarely chose to work with Tommy or Joel.

Sighing and rubbing sleep from his eyes, Tommy let his irritation die. "So who were you bringin' in last night?"

"Fireflies."

Tommy glanced up, too quickly perhaps. Troy eyed him and shook his head again, apparently amused as he took another swig of whiskey. "Christ, Tommy," he snorted. "If you love the Fireflies so much, why the hell aren't you with 'em? You don't fuckin' belong _here_, that's for sure."

Tommy only frowned and turned away.

Troy smirked. "Don't tell me it's Joel. Dunno how you two ain't killed each other yet." He shook his head, resting his elbow on his knee as he leaned on the railing. "You'd make a real nice fit with 'em anyway. Buncha hippy do-gooders. Pain in my ass. Yeah, you'd fit right in."

"Pain in your ass?" Tommy returned, squinting up at Troy. "Thought you liked Marlene."

"I do," he shrugged. "Just don't like the trouble that follows along behind her and her people. Lightin' into anythin' military that moves? Startin' to piss me off. Feds wouldn't be so goddamn hot on smugglers if the Fireflies'd just lay off for a while. Takes me twice as long to do a job these days, 'cause of all the goddamn patrols."

He took another drag on the crooked little cigarette and breathed out through his nose.

Tommy waved the smoke away. It smelled of burning leaves and damp rot. "Christ, Troy. What the hell are you smokin'?"

"Near as I can tell?" Troy grunted, pinching the cigarette between two fingers and glaring at it. "Cardboard. Damn thing's stale as sawdust." Still, he did not put it out, as if the familiarity were compelling. "Anyway," he continued, "maybe the military takes out a few more Fireflies, maybe my life gets a little easier."

Tommy cocked his head to the side and rolled his eyes, dryly muttering, "You're all heart on this day of love, Troy."

Troy's brow wrinkled. "What?"

"Valentine's Day," Tommy yawned. "Today? It's February 14th."

As he looked back down at Tommy, Troy's expression changed. His lips parted and the lines around his eyes slowly released. For several seconds, he simply stared at Tommy with a blank look, and when he did finally say something, his voice was unusually quiet.

"You keep track of the days?"

Quite abruptly, Tommy felt a tightness wrap around his chest. "Yeah…"

"Since when?"

A light breeze ruffled Tommy's hair as he tipped his head slightly and shrugged, as if to indicate that Troy well knew the answer. They both did. Tommy had been recording the dates since April 2nd, 2016. Since Charleston.

Suddenly Troy's tone became gruff again, impatient. "You still got the book?"

Tommy nodded without a word.

"Lemme see it."

Tommy opened his mouth, but could only take a slow breath and swallow under Troy's abrupt glare. Tommy undid the top button of his coat and reached into one of the inner pockets until his fingers met leather.

The gold filigree that had once adorned the cover of Haney's pocket calendar had long ago peeled away, but the imprint of _2013 Planner_ was still visible, stamped into the book's black leather binding. The edges of the leather were frayed and graying, and the pages were brittle and warped as if having gotten wet more than once. And across the front cover, an old brown stain curled around a scatter of holes, left by birdshot.

Troy snatched the book out of Tommy's outstretched hand almost as soon as Tommy had drawn it out of his coat. Capping the flask of whiskey, Troy straightened and dropped his boot from the railing, setting the flask on the folding table. His expression was sharp as he slowly opened the planner and began thumbing through it, brows drawn together in a deep, almost angry frown. Tommy was forgotten, as was the whiskey and the cigarette that still dangled from Troy's lips.

He reached the last page and stopped. The muscles in his face went slack, and Tommy could hear him breathe slow and shaky through his nose, jaw clenching and unclenching as he stared at the page without moving. Tommy knew what Troy was looking at. It was on the last page of the old planner that Tommy kept the wrinkled, fading photograph. Judge and a gray-haired woman, seated at a picnic table with a boy of four or five, holding ice cream cones.

Suddenly Troy snapped the book closed. He held it in both hands, gaze lifting blankly to look out across the roofs, blinking rapidly. For a second, Tommy thought Troy might pitch the old planner out over the edge of the roof, but then, without ceremony, he thrust it back towards Tommy without a word.

As Tommy silently accepted it back, Troy snapped up his flask of whiskey from the table and retrieved his black rifle. He turned away from Tommy without even so much as a nod farewell and began stamping back across the rooftop, gravel crunching underfoot.

"Troy," Tommy started to say, standing.

Yet even as he spoke, the crack of a distant explosion behind him suddenly caused Tommy to cringe forward. Troy's head whipped round, expression instantly darkening.

Tommy turned, searching for the source of the noise, and saw a plume of black smoke rising from a building on the other side of the quarantine zone, near the western perimeter. It was a military housing area, if Tommy guessed the location correctly.

"Shit," he muttered, pulling his stocking cap off and running a hand through his hair.

Behind him, Troy grunted angrily. "Goddamn, Marlene." Tommy looked back and the smuggler pointed. "Keep off the streets today. Military's gonna be out in force after that." He turned without another word and started back towards the roof access door, pitching the stub of his cigarette to the ground as he walked.

Grimacing as the distant explosion belched another roil of oily black smoke into the air, Tommy grabbed his chipped mug and crammed his cap over his ears again, fighting his own rising irritation as he followed Troy.

The pre-dawn illusion was gone. The day had begun.

* * *

><p><em>Evening<em>

Troy was right. All day, Boston had teemed with soldiers and the rumble of military trucks. Checkpoints were closed to all save Security Level 1 and 2 personnel and curfew had been temporarily extended by two hours, starting an hour earlier and ending an hour later. And every fifteen minutes, the loudspeakers blared obnoxious, monotone warnings.

_Do not put yourself at risk, report any suspicious behavior immediately. Citizens are reminded that harboring known insurgents is punishable up to and including death. Citizens are required to carry current ID at all times. Compliance with all city personnel is mandatory. Unapproved congregations of more than four citizens are strictly prohibited._

There was no loudspeaker in the narrow alley down which Tommy was now making his way, but he could hear the grave female voice somewhere in the distance, echoing across the sides of buildings in the pitch black of night.

_Attention. Curfew is now in full effect. Anyone caught outside without proper authorization will be arrested and prosecuted._

Clenching his teeth, Tommy pulled up the collar of his coat and kept his head down, sticking to the darkest shadows. Boston felt oddly safer at night. It might bring with it the risk of being jumped in a dark alley, but if you were prepared to defend yourself, the darkness was like an old friend, a cloak from the constant scrutiny and watchfulness of the military during the day.

Tommy moved quickly, following the brick side of a house until it abruptly gave way to a chain link fence and a paved open area squashed between buildings. Benches lined the opposite side of the fence, looking out over an abandoned basketball court and playground. Ducking into the park through an opening in the fence, Tommy glanced down at an old sign that had been pulled down and discarded on the ground. _Cutillo Park_. He ignored it, instead kicking aside some of the refuse that was scattered across several faded hopscotch lines as he made his way past the basketball court, headed for the swing set on the other side of the park.

He ducked beneath a set of slides and saw a shadow move beside the corner of one of the surrounding buildings. Joel's outline was dimly visible under the pale light of the half-moon above.

"Well?" he said as Tommy neared.

Tommy shook his head. "Line was open for twenty minutes. They used the early curfew as an excuse to shut down early. Twenty goddamn minutes."

Joel softly cursed beneath his breath. "Gonna have to start tellin' Tess's buyers to pay in somethin' other than cards, at least 'til spring. Cards don't mean a goddamn thing if they ain't actually handin' out rations."

"Gonna be riots," Tommy muttered darkly.

Joel grunted and waved for Tommy to follow. They started down a second alley that led away from the park. "Feds aren't stupid," he said. "They can see what the Fireflies are doin', uppin' these attacks and gettin' themselves seen right when the winter's startin' to pinch. And the military's spooked. Donny says Pittsburgh's on its way out."

"Rioters?"

"Mmhmm," Joel nodded. "They'll be ready for it here."

They came to the mouth of the alley and paused, quickly scanning the road that the alleyway opened onto. A row of old shop fronts greeted them, but the street itself was dark. They stepped out and turned right, headed for a wide brick plaza that opened up a hundred feet ahead of them, past which a wide road and green space yawned into the darkness that reached towards the city's abandoned downtown. Far ahead, they could see the occasional wink of light flicker between buildings, the roaming spotlights of soldiers on the distant wall.

"You doin' okay?" Joel muttered, glancing sidelong at Tommy as they walked.

Tommy frowned and looked up, but his brother's expression was concealed by shadow. "Yeah?" he replied. "Why?"

Joel shrugged. "Troy said you were up on the roof this mornin'."

The comment was casual enough, but Tommy felt himself bristle more than he ought to have. "Keepin' tabs on me again?"

"No," Joel grunted, tone quickly becoming annoyed. "More like Troy was comin' to me to complain, actually."

"If he's got a problem, tell him to talk to me."

Joel stopped, fixing Tommy with sharp look.

"I'm fine, Joel," Tommy said impatiently.

"Christ, never mind." Joel pushed past Tommy, shaking his head.

As they reached the plaza, they scanned the street beyond for signs of movement and stepped beneath the hard shell of a black and yellow awning that wrapped around a corner restaurant. On the brick wall beside them, a large sign displayed an old-fashioned painting of an old man, jolly and grinning, beneath which was printed _Moody's Irish Pub and Bistro_.

Apparently satisfied that they were not being watched, Joel turned towards the pub. The glass front door had been kicked in and boarded up again, but it remained unlocked, swinging inward with a rattle at Joel's push. They were greeted by dim light and the collective hushing of a dozen voices. People in sleeping bags and blankets were huddled into the narrow confines of the old pub, some already dozing, others playing cards by the light of flickering candles, others still cooking some gray gruelish concoction over a meager fire behind the bar. They all looked up as Tommy and Joel entered and closed the door behind them. Several nodded and mumbled the brothers' names in greeting.

Acknowledging a few of the squatters with passing nods, Joel and Tommy made their way through the narrow length of the pub until they reached a set of stairs at the back, which they quickly mounted, headed for the second floor. Like most traditional pubs, Moody's had once had a proper seating area above, apart from the rowdy ruckus at the bar below. This area was wider than below, with gray wood floors and yellow walls, tables and chairs scattered haphazardly in absent disarray.

There were people up here too, but they had harder faces and cooler eyes than the squatters below. Most grasped bottles or chewed on smelly little joints that wrapped dense tendrils of smoke around their ears. Several were already passed out. Those still conscious nodded at Tommy and Joel as they pushed past, making for the far corner of the restaurant, where tables had been stacked on their sides to make a vaguely private area that looked out over the plaza on the street below.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in," Tess smirked, as the two brothers slid through the narrow opening in the table barricade to access the closed off corner area.

She was seated on a long bench alongside one wall, feet propped up on a table as she faced a second bar that had been squeezed into this back corner. Troy was with her, likewise seated at the table, but he sat with his head against the wall behind him, eyes closed, a glass of amber liquid on the table before him.

He opened his eyes just long enough to roll them at the sight of Tommy and Joel. "Christ," he grunted with annoyance, then closed his eyes again.

"Aw great, you're just in time, boys!" Hemmy emerged from behind the bar, beaming as the brothers collapsed into chairs beneath several windows that had been papered over with old newspapers. Rodger was there also, sprawled out across several chairs with his eyes closed like Troy, as if he were trying to sleep.

"For what?" Joel grunted.

"Your daily poisoning," Rodger suddenly muttered, rousing himself enough to crack open a bleary eye and grin.

Hemmy frowned with dramatic indignation. "I know you're not dissing my cooking, Rodge. I know you wouldn't be so cruel."

"Nine boxes, Hem. _Nine_."

It was a relentless joke between the two of them. In a different life, Hemmy had once been a student at Boston University, and Rodger the janitor who had cleaned Hem's residence hall. As chaos had descended over the city, they had both sheltered in Hemmy's dorm room, subsisting for half a week on only what food Hemmy had kept in his room; principally, five cans of SpaghettiOs, six packets of Ramen noodles, and nine boxes of chocolate chip cookies. A practical smorgasbord for the college-age male.

Tess snickered from her corner, then reached forward and snatched up the glass of amber liquid that sat before Troy. As she took a sip, she pointed at Tommy and Joel. "What's with the empty hands?"

Tommy reached into a coat pocket and drew out a wad of ration cards, which he tossed onto the table. "They're useless right now," he said. "If the Feds've got the food, they're keepin' it to themselves. Line was open twenty minutes before they shut the depot down."

"You sure?"

"No, it was actually open three hours. I just enjoy starvin'." Tommy tilted his head sarcastically to the side.

Lips pressed together, Tess gathered up the cards, her face pinching with irritation.

"We gotta stop takin' cards as payment," Joel muttered. "Bullets, food, booze, whatever. But 'til the depots are up and runnin' again, cards aren't gonna do us no good."

She slowly nodded.

"Well, you won't be starvin' _tonight_, at least," Hemmy declared proudly, setting out a line of Styrofoam bowls along the bar top. A pot of some unknown substance was simmering on a small propane stove behind the bar.

"What're we eatin', Hem?" Troy grunted, letting his head fall away from the wall as his eyes opened sleepily again. He gestured grumpily towards Tess and she handed him back his stolen glass of whiskey, which he quickly downed the remainder of.

"_Well_," Hemmy grinned, his red-blond beard glinting almost gold in the flicker of candlelight. As he lifted the cooking pot and began to spoon its contents into each of the Styrofoam bowls, his tone became nasal and pretentious. "Tonight's special is a delicate platter of pasta pillows stuffed with four different kinds of cheese and served in a rich tomato sauce with just a hint of orange. To top it all, the dish is completed by a crispy garnish of lightly toasted bread crumbs that add the most exquisite hint of fine white cheddar."

The young man was passing around the bowls now, setting them on the tables with the flourish of a French waiter. Tommy looked down at his helping. It was canned ravioli and mandarin slices.

"Hem," Rodger said, scratching at his goatee as he dubiously poked the concoction. "These are Cheez-Its."

"Excuse me," Hemmy replied, continuing his affected speech as if severely affronted. "_Garnish_, you Neanderthal."

A smattering of chuckles rolled around the space. It was actually surprisingly good, even if there wasn't much of it, and they all ate in relative silence. Tommy could see several of the lean, hard faces beyond the table barricade glancing in their direction, casually straining to see what Tess and her crew were eating. Privacy was an illusion in the zone, but separation at least could be enforced, with the right application of threats and violence. The onlookers were all fellow smugglers, some of them even people Tommy had worked with, but they contented themselves with only staring from afar; they knew to leave Tess and her people well enough alone.

Tommy was just scraping up the last of the tomato sauce from his bowl, feeling a warm drowsiness begin to steal over him as he leaned against the wall behind him, when he heard boots on the stairway below. That wasn't unusual. Moody's was one of Boston's many booze dens, frequented by smugglers and druggies and the desperate and depressed. People came and went at all hours of the day. So Tommy only glanced casually in the direction of the stairs when he heard the footsteps below, and no one else made much effort to move either. It was late anyway. They would probably end up sleeping here, drifting off as they sprawled across benches and chairs, warmed by canned ravioli and whiskey.

Boots hit the landing on the second floor and suddenly someone shouted. Tommy's eyes snapped open.

In an instant, people were yelling, glasses shattering, tables overturning, and floorboards shaking as the entire second floor burst into action. Amidst the flickering of spilled candles, Tommy could see dark blue FEDRA uniforms and the glint of weapons. Smugglers were spilling over one another, some falling backwards across upturned tables, other bolting for an old emergency exit beside the stairway.

Tommy was on his feet, as was Joel and Tess and the rest of them, but the soldiers in blue stood between them and the exit. Tess glanced behind her, shooting them all a sharp look, warning them to hold steady as she lifted her hands above her head. There was no point running when half a dozen guns stood between you and freedom.

"On your knees! On your knees!" a big sergeant with a potbelly was yelling beyond the table barricade. He was older, with a scruffy gray beard and the bearing of a longtime commander. The commotion near the stairway was dying down quickly as soldiers forced smugglers to their knees or knocked them unconscious with cracks across the head. No shots had yet been fired. As Tommy held his hands above his head, patiently waiting for the soldiers to approach their back corner, he squinted in the semi-darkness, quickly assessing what they were up against. It looked like a single squad, perhaps six soldiers in all, likely members of Boston's main policing force if the lack of bulky flak jackets and helmets were any indication. These were soldiers who mostly stayed within the confines of the zone, clad only in light uniforms and field hats, and wielding only pistols for defense.

Good. They would easier to deal with than fully-armored troops.

"Hands in the air!" the potbellied sergeant suddenly shouted, pointing a flashlight and pistol back towards Tess and her people. "Keep your hands in the fuckin' air!"

"Alright already, we are," Tess muttered snidely, still patiently waiting.

Several of the soldiers remained by the stairs with guns trained on those smugglers already on the ground, while the rest began wrenching apart the table barricade and throwing the makeshift wall to the floor. By the time they had finished, Tommy could see nothing but the glare of flashlights in his face. He turned his head away from the blinding light.

"Him, and him," Tommy heard the sergeant grunt. "Rest of you, against the wall and on your knees!"

While Tommy and the others began to shuffle backwards towards the back wall, two of the soldiers strode forward and grabbed first Joel, then Troy, pulling them away from the wall and forcing them to their knees beside the bar.

"Hey, what the hell—" Tommy started to growl.

A third soldier, this one a woman with red hair, backhanded Tommy with the tip of her pistol, snapping his head to the side and stumbling him back a step. A second later, though he could hardly see a thing between the blow and the continued glare of flashlights, Tommy felt the woman kick his leg out from under him, crashing him to the ground.

"Sergeant said on the ground, stragglers!" the woman shouted.

"Hey!" That was Tess's voice behind Tommy, commanding yet compliant. "Hey, what's the big deal, Sarge? We can work this out."

"On the fuckin' ground," was the sergeant's only reply. Tommy felt the others drop to their knees behind him.

The flashlights mercifully swiveled out of Tommy's eyes, leaving him blinking rapidly to clear his vision as he followed the beams of light to where they now pointed. At Joel and Troy.

The two soldiers who had hauled them forward and forced them to their knees now pointed their pistols at them. "Open up your jackets," one of them growled.

"What?" Joel muttered, eyes narrowing.

"Do it!"

Joel and Troy glanced at each other, then slowly undid the fronts of their coats, each warily watching the sergeant who loomed above them. The red-haired woman stepped behind Joel and, for just a second, Tommy's breath caught in his throat and his pulse spiked at the thought the woman might shoot his brother in the back of the head. But she didn't. Instead, she hooked her fingers into the back of Joel's coat collar and roughly jerked the coat off of his shoulders, trapping his arms behind him in the sleeves.

"Nothin', Sarge," the woman grunted.

The sergeant pointed his pistol at Troy. "The other one then."

"Sergeant," Tess said, her tone still cajoling, but now growing sharp. "We can work this out. Just look the other way. No one here talks and we can make it worth your while."

He ignored her.

The red-haired soldier moved behind Troy next. As with Joel, she hooked her fingers into the collar of Troy's coat and jerked, pulling the coat away from Troy's shoulders and pinning his arms behind his back.

"Here it is, Sarge!" the woman suddenly exclaimed triumphantly. "This is him! Sword on fire. Steelbrands." She flicked her flashlight on and shined it across the back of Troy's faded motorcycle vest with its flaming red cutlass. Tommy suddenly felt his stomach drop.

"What the hell is this?" Troy growled, scowling up under the glare of flashlights.

"Troy Rother," the sergeant barked, his potbelly shaking. "You are hereby under arrest upon suspicion of aiding and abetting a terrorist organization, principally the insurgent militia known as Fireflies and known affiliates, in the commission of crimes against the Boston military garrison. You are charged with aiding in the murder of nine city personnel this morning at approximately o'five hundred hours—"

"Sergeant!" Tess snapped, speaking fast and losing patience. "Let him go and we make it worth your while. What do you want? Cards? Booze? Bullets? Food? What do you want?"

"I want you to fuckin' shut up!" he suddenly shouted, face growing red as his eyes swiveled to Tess. Then his teeth clenched and he scratched a hand through his dirty gray beard. He abruptly pointed at the two soldiers who had originally dragged Joel and Troy forward, gesturing them towards Tess.

"Fuckin' hold her down."

Tess's eyes widened, not with fear, but with fury. The two soldiers were on her in an instant, each grabbing an arm and pinning her against the wall as the sergeant stepped past Troy and Joel and began undoing the buckle of his belt.

"Don't you fuckin' dare, you fuckin' son of a bitch!" Tess spat, lunging and kicking, violently rolling and twisting with furious energy against the two soldiers who had pinned her against the wall.

Heart hammering against his chest, Tommy's eyes darted to the red-headed woman, who still had her pistol trained on the back of Troy's head, but whose expression was now distracted and growing increasingly ill-at-ease as she watched her sergeant advance on Tess. Tommy's mind raced. Rodger and Hemmy were on their knees beneath one of the windows, Troy and Joel on their knees beside the bar. But the only other soldiers were the two who still stood out beyond the torn down table barricade, guarding the other smugglers by the stairway. Would they risk shooting into the dark distant corner of the pub if their comrades were in trouble?

Fuck it.

Tommy lunged forward. His shoulder collided with the red-haired woman's legs, sweeping them out from beneath her and tumbling her to the ground. A second later, Hemmy and Rodger seemed to have the same idea as they both flipped a table and shoved their weight against it, ramming into the side of one of the soldier's holding Tess.

The red-haired woman spilled over Troy's back as she fell to the ground, knocking him forward but giving him the opportunity to shrug fully out of the sleeves of his coat and free his trapped arms. Joel did likewise and rolled to the side. As Troy struggled to lift himself off his stomach with the weight of the stunned woman atop him, Joel snatched the whiskey glass from the table where Troy and Tess had previously been drinking and swung it down towards the back of the woman's head.

She rolled just in time to catch the glass above her temple, where the top portion of it shattered, gouging a deep gash into the side of her head. She screamed, sliding off of Troy and twisting. Even in the dim, frantic light, Tommy could see she still held her pistol, which she was now whipping up to bear on Joel. Troy snarled and swung backwards with his elbow as he finally righted himself, the tip of his elbow crashing into the woman's face. She cried out again, now half blinded, and swiveled to aim at Troy instead.

Her first shot split through the confined pub space with a deafening roar and a flash of muzzle fire, but it careened off into the darkness. Tommy lunged forward again, hands wrapping around her outstretched arm as she squeezed the trigger a second time. His tackle jerked her arm to the side, but not quite enough. Troy, who had only just managed to struggle upright, suddenly flopped back against the floorboards with a howl of pain, blood slapping across the wall behind him.

Tommy barely had time to think. He had pinned the woman's arm to the ground beneath the weight of his own body, and he slammed a fist down on her knuckles now to force her to release the pistol. Suddenly, above him, Joel loomed into view, still holding the bloody cracked whiskey glass. His brother dropped to a knee and swung the glass down again. This time the shards of broken glass did not merely leave a gash. They plowed straight into the woman's brow and she did not move again.

Tommy sucked in a gasp of air and had just enough time to roll off the dead woman before shouts behind him snapped his head around. One of the soldiers who had been holding Tess was slumped sideways over a table, his head caved in. The other was face down with what looked like a knife wound at the base of his neck. As for the sergeant, he was on his back on the ground, arms pinned by Hemmy and Rodger as Tess braced herself against his chest with a knee, cracking knuckles across the sergeant's face as he writhed and cried in pain.

"Tess!" Joel suddenly yelled.

He had snatched the pistol from the red-haired woman's hand and tossed it now towards Tess, who caught it mid-air. Without a word, and with an expression like iron, she jammed the barrel of the gun under the pleading sergeant's chin and pulled the trigger. Twice.

Silence abruptly descended. Tommy realized he had forgotten about the two remaining soldiers by the stairway, but as he quickly glanced in that direction, he realized they were alone. At the top of the stairs were two bodies. The soldiers had apparently been set upon by the other smugglers during the commotion, for the other smugglers were gone and the soldiers now lay quite motionless in a pool of their own blood.

"_Goddamn_," came a moan from behind Tommy.

They all turned to see Troy rolling to a sitting position, his expression livid as he held a bloody hand to the side of his head. Blood had splattered across his face and soaked into his hair and beard. It coated his entire hand and rolled down his arm to drip across his shoulder and pool at the sleeve of his shirt.

"Jesus Christ," Joel muttered, quickly coming to his feet and scrambling over to Troy. "Move your hand. _Goddamnit_, Troy, _move_ your hand."

Grudgingly lowering his hand, Troy winced away from Joel as Joel lifted one of the soldiers' flashlights. The bullet had grazed the side of Troy's head, but while it might have missed its lethal mark, it had shorn away part of Troy's left ear, leaving only a bloody, mangled mess instead.

"Fuckin' bastards," Tess growled, abruptly ripping open the dead sergeant's jacket with bloody hands. "How'd you fuckin' know? Who fuckin' ratted?"

"'Cause of your run this mornin'?" Tommy said, standing and hooking a hand under Troy's shoulder to help haul the big man to his feet.

"Had to been," Troy grumbled, grimacing as Tommy and Joel gingerly lowered him into a chair. He had clapped a hand back over his shredded ear, but his eyes flicked briefly up to Tommy.

"Thanks, for that," he muttered, vaguely waving a bloody finger towards the dead woman. Then, as if gratitude were too much to concede, he twisted towards Tess. "Get a fuckin' move on, Tess. We gotta clear outta here."

"Got it!" She pulled a blue notebook from the inside of the sergeant's jacket and slapped it onto the table in front of Troy. Flipping it open, she thumbed quickly to the last page with writing on it and scanned it before stabbing the page with a finger, leaving a bloody fingerprint beneath one of the scrawled lines. "_Vincent G. – 12 cards_," she read. "_6 paid immediately, 6 upon confirmation of information._"

Troy glanced up to Tess. "Vincent G.? Vince Gorski?"

"That'd be my guess," she nodded angrily. "God bless the military for writing _everything_ down."

"Then let's get the bastard," Troy growled.

Tess nodded again as she snapped the notebook closed, straightening. Her eyes were cold and clear as she turned to look back at Hemmy and Rodger. "You two in?"

"Hell yeah," Rodger grunted.

"Hell yeah," Hemmy echoed, nodding.

Tess looked to Joel and Tommy, brows lifting.

Joel frowned and nodded sharply. "Hell yeah."

Only Tommy hesitated, meeting Tess's glare with a scowl of his own, his brows drawn together in clear skepticism. As if they hadn't had enough drama for one night.

"Yeah," he finally said, nodding.

Tess stared at him a second longer, though it was difficult to tell if the anger in her expression stemmed from his hesitation or the situation at large. Either way, she eventually broke off her glare and pushed past Joel and Troy. "Get him up," she snapped back, gesturing towards Troy as she headed for the stairs. "We need to patch him up before we find Vince."

Frowning angrily, Tommy stooped and hooked a hand under Troy's arm again. Joel did the same on the other side.

"_Retaliation doesn't work_, huh?" Tommy muttered as they hauled Troy to his feet.

"You don't kill a rat 'cause of revenge, Tommy," Troy grunted, angrily jerking his arm out of Tommy's grasp and stumping after Tess. "You kill a rat 'cause he's a goddamn rat."

* * *

><p><em>Late Night<em>

Damp had crept through the ceiling in the entry hall of the apartment building, drying in ugly brown streaks down the white walls and staining the white tiles on the floor a grimy yellow. Paint peeled away from the walls, cracking in some places and, in others, curling away in great long rolls that drooped towards the floor.

Their boots scuffed and echoed across the tight little space as Tommy, Joel, Troy, Tess, Rodger, and Hemmy filed in through the front door of the building, flicking their flashlights on only once the door was closed behind them.

"We search in twos," Tess whispered as they all gathered around. "Hemmy and Rodger, Joel and Tommy, me and Troy. He's in this building, but I don't know which apartment. Find him, secure him, and call the rest of us. Nobody's calling the Feds here, but let's make this quick if we can help it. Questions?"

She glanced around the faces in the circle and no one said a thing. Troy's head was wrapped in a bandage that had already bled through and blood was still caked down his neck and the side of his face, but even he held a gun and flashlight, as if none the worse for wear.

Tess gave a sharp nod, then held up three fingers. "Three floors. Troy and I got the first floor. Joel, you've got second. Rodger, you and Hem on third. Let's go."

They moved quickly, flashlights sweeping across the white tiles as they followed Tess. She and Troy bypassed the staircase and disappeared down a black hallway, while the other four mounted the stairs and began jogging up them.

At the second floor landing, Hemmy paused long enough to mutter, "Good luck," before pushing past Tommy and Joel towards the third floor.

Tommy nodded after Rodger and Hemmy as they disappeared up the stairway.

"Fuckin' hell," Tommy muttered. "What the hell are we doin'?"

Joel thumped a fist against Tommy's chest, his expression hardening with annoyance. "For Christ's sake, Tommy," he whispered. "Focus."

"On findin' Vince? Jesus, Joel, we don't even know he _did_ it."

"That's what we're gonna find out."

Tommy angrily jerked his arm and held up the pistol he held. "Yeah, 'cause we're clearly just here to _talk_."

Joel grabbed Tommy's coat, brows drawing together as he hissed in the darkness. "This is _not_ the time, Tommy. Are you _doin'_ this?"

"_Yes, goddamnit_," Tommy whispered back, his knuckles turning white as he held his flashlight and gestured impatiently for Joel to lead the way.

Angrily releasing Tommy, Joel's jaw clenched for a second before he shook his head and turned away. Light flickered across the peeling white walls and red metal doors as he moved quickly down the hall, pistol held outstretched in one hand, flashlight held above his head in the other.

At the first door, Joel wrapped a hand around the handle, glanced back at Tommy, then wrenched it open quickly. Few of Boston's apartment doors had locks on them anymore, and this one flew open at Joel's insistence. Suddenly Tommy heard a woman begin shouting and a baby start to cry.

"Shut up," Joel growled, still trying to keep his voice low as he put a finger to his lips. "Shut up!"

The woman instantly quieted and Tommy peeked around the edge of the doorjamb. It was a middle-aged woman in a ragged dress, whimpering as she clutched a bawling baby to her chest and pressed her back against a set of kitchen cabinets behind her.

"Vince Gorski?" Joel whispered sharply. The woman only shook her head, eyes wide and terrified.

He jerked the door closed again, silently thumbing that they continue. At the second door, he did the same as the first, briefly pausing, hand on the door knob, before throwing open the door and pointing both pistol and flashlight through the opening. No one screamed this time, but they peered in at six stunned faces, young and old, all with mouths agape and eyes wide with fear. Candles flickered around a living room with worn sofas and strings of drying clothing.

"Vince Gorski?" Joel said, still pointing his pistol at the frightened family.

None of them spoke a word, but after a second, an old man beside one of the sofas raised a shaking hand and pointed towards the wall. Next door.

Joel nodded sharply and quickly closed the apartment door.

"Be ready," he muttered as his boots scuffed across the white tile towards the next door.

Tommy steadied himself, taking a deep breath as he held his pistol and flashlight beside one another, safety off. As before, Joel placed a hand lightly on the door handle, took a breath, then wrenched it open and swung it inwards so hard it slammed against the wall behind it.

For just a second, they had a view of the undisturbed room. Candlelight greeted them from half a dozen flickering flames that dotted the small studio apartment, lining old bookshelves and set in cup saucers on the kitchen counter. Against the far wall was a double bed, and atop it, two people. Tommy could only see the back of the woman's black hair, but she was leaned over the man's mid-section, her head bobbing up and down as the man groaned and grasped the bedposts behind him.

As Tommy and Joel burst into the apartment, however, the man suddenly looked up and yelled in alarm, instantly rolling and spilling over the far side of the bed, disappearing from view. The woman spun round on the bed and screamed, gathering a heavy sweater she wore around her and fumbling to button up the front.

"Get up!" Joel shouted, stomping into the kitchen as he aimed his pistol around the far side of the bed, where the man had disappeared to. "Vincent, get up!"

"What the hell, Joel? What the _fuck_?" The man had managed to button up his jeans by the time he scrambled up from behind the bed, hands raised, but he remained shirtless and shoeless, visibly shaking beneath the glare of Joel's flashlight and pistol.

Tommy knew Vince Gorski from the docks, one of the many lay-abouts who frequented Boston's drug dens and smuggler's holes, trading gossip and small talk over booze and drugs. He was near forty, with long hair, a patchy beard, and a New York accent so strong he could have doubled for Ed Burns.

Tommy recognized Vince's bedmate as well, an Asian woman named Lin who also frequented the docks, one of many women who made their living attaching themselves to such men.

"Sit down," Joel growled, gesturing towards a small dining table with two chairs. He shook his head at Lin, who had begun to move from the bed. "You stay there. Sit _down_, Vince."

Vince, who had been moving slowly, still shaky, suddenly jerked at Joel's barked command and skittered forward, thumping down into one of the chairs and perching nervously on the edge.

"What's this about, Joel? Tommy?" he mumbled, lip quivering.

"Stay there," Joel grunted, then waved Tommy towards Vince. "Watch him."

As Tommy positioned himself in front of the table, pistol aimed at Vince, Joel quickly crossed the apartment back to the front door, which was still ajar. He stepped into the hallway and turned in the direction of the stairwell. "Tess!" he yelled, loud as he could, voice echoing up and down the corridor. "Tess! Troy! We got him! Second floor!"

"Oh shit," Vince suddenly groaned, rocking back and forth on his chair.

"Shut up," Tommy snapped.

In the hallway, Tommy could hear doors opening and inquiring voices drift towards them. "Close your goddamn doors!" Joel growled, and a second later, doors were frantically slamming up and down the floor.

Joel twisted away from the entrance.

"Joel!" Vince stuttered. "Listen man, I don't know what this is about—"

"Shut up," Joel grunted.

They heard footsteps in the hall, boots running across the white tile outside. Another moment and Tess appeared in the doorway, slightly breathless, but with a pleased expression as soon as she caught sight off Vince.

"Why hello, Vincent," she smirked, moving into the apartment with her gun held before her. Troy followed behind.

Vince's face paled. "Tess, T-Troy," he stuttered. "Uh, what's this all about? What, uh, uh, happened to your face?" He swallowed visibly, staring up at Troy.

"You tell me, Vince," Troy rumbled as he neared the table. Unless Tess, Troy wasted no time playing with his food. "Did you rat?"

"W-What?" Vince's voice rose an octave. "No! Are you kidding? No way, man, I swear!"

"Did you rat on me, Vince?" Troy repeated, lip curling.

"No! No, I swear I wouldn't, Troy! I would never, I would never!"

Footsteps echoed in the hallway again and Tommy looked up to see Hemmy and Rodger appear in the doorway, breathing hard.

Tess pointed at them. "Watch the hall," she barked. They nodded and she returned her attention to Vince. "Hands on the table, Vincent. _Now_."

He shook as he slowly complied with her command, spreading his fingers as he placed both hands on the table in front of him. Tess circled behind him and roughly dug into the back of his jeans pocket, causing him to squirm uncomfortably. A second later, she withdraw a wad of ration cards and threw them onto the table. Six of them.

"Where'd you get the cards, Vince?"

Vince's nostrils were flaring as he breathed rapidly through his nose, shaking his head. "Just been…saving up, you know? Doing a little work here and there."

"Bullshit," Troy growled. He leaned forward and slammed a fist onto the table, causing Vince to jump.

"Tommy, Troy, hold his arms," Tess snapped suddenly, her patience withering.

Gritting his teeth together with wary apprehension, Tommy nonetheless complied, circling behind Vincent and grabbing one of the man's outstretched arms to hold it in place. Troy did the same on Vince's other side.

Tess looked at Joel and jerked the tip of her gun towards Vince, looking pointedly at his splayed fingers.

Vince's eyes abruptly widened and he scrunched his hands into fists, stammering. "Wait wait wait! I swear I dunno what you're talking about. Please please please, I dunno, I dunno. Please dear god, I swear I dunno." On the bed, Lin began to cry.

It was as if Joel hardly needed to be told what to do. Without any further prompting from Tess, he flipped his pistol around so that he was grasping the barrel, lifted it above his head, and brought the butt of the gun viciously crashing down onto one of Vince's clenched fists.

The man's agonized howl split through the room with the sound of crunching bone. Lin screamed. Vince lurched in his chair, instinctively releasing the fist he had been clenching as his fingers weakly unfurled themselves. A second later, Joel brought the gun down a second time, slamming it across the top of Vince's already broken hand with the sharp crack of bone meeting metal.

Tommy had continued to hold Vincent in shocked disbelief after the first blow, but after the second, he abruptly released the tortured man, lifting his hands into the air as he stared at his brother, mouth agape.

"What the _hell_, Joel? _Are you fuckin' serious?_"

"Keep holdin' him, Tommy," Joel growled.

"That's fuckin' torture, Joel!"

"_Tommy!_"

Vince had begun to retract his released arm, this one with a hand as yet unbroken. He was pulling it back from the tabletop and making as if to drop it beneath the table, where anything, any weapon, could be waiting. Jaw clenching, Tommy dove forward and grabbed Vince's arm before he could withdraw it, but he fixed his brother with a withering glare.

"This is fuckin' wrong, Joel."

Joel did not reply. Instead, he lifted the butt of the pistol again. Tommy looked away, his teeth gritting as the table suddenly shook with another bone-splitting crack and Vince's howling and violent struggles redoubled.

"Please please please please," Vince was saying over and over again. He was crying, his brow pressed against the tabletop, sweat beading across his bare chest and spittle flecking his beard.

Troy grabbed the back of the man's greasy hair and jerked his head up. "_Did you rat on me, Vince?_" he growled.

"Yeeesss," Vince moaned, head lolling back weakly. His eyes scrunched up, tears rolling down his dirty cheeks. "Oh sweet Jesus, please, please. I did, I did it, I did it. I'm sorry, please, please. I'm so sorry. Please, Troy. They came asking. The Feds, they came asking questions. Please, Troy, I swear I was starving. I haven't eaten in a week, I swear. Please, Troy. Please."

Troy grimaced, disgusted as he let go of Vince's hair. "That's 'cause you blow all your cards on fuckin' booze and whores, Vince. Not my problem."

"Jesus," Tess suddenly snorted, sneering. "Are we done here?"

"Yeah," Troy grunted. He released Vince's arm.

Tommy did the same, tasting something bitter and unpleasant at the back of his throat as he watched Vince slowly drag his broken hands across the table, cradling them as silent tears coursed down his face.

Abruptly, Tess lifted her pistol and pointed it at Vince's head. His eyes widened.

"Nonononono—"

The crack of the gun filled the small apartment from floor to ceiling, instantly deafening Tommy as a violent ringing clamored in his ears. The wall behind Vince blossomed in a spray of red and the informer's head jerked back so forcefully than his chair actually tipped over backwards, spilling Vince's body to the ground.

A hammering like drums filled Tommy's head, pinching to a high rhythmic whine in his ears. It seemed like the room swam before him in mottled black and flickering orange. He could hear his own breathing, loud and steady, feel the thump of his heart. He could smell gunpowder, bitter and sharp. The grinding ring of the rifle bolt pulled back, the whisper of a spent cartridge flying past his ear, the clank of another round chambering.

_Tommy._

Steady breath. Sight along the barrel. Gentle squeeze of the trigger. Shoulder braced as the stock leaps back. A figure jerks, head snapped back, falls to the ground.

"_Hey!_"

Tommy blinked.

There was a hand on his arm, shaking him. At first he could only stare at the hand, red knuckles and cuts, blood around the fingernails. Then he slowly looked up to find Joel staring at him, eyes wide and lips parted with alarm.

"Did you even hear me?" Joel muttered, still holding Tommy.

"I'm fine," Tommy said automatically. He could feel his pulse racing, but took several deep breaths and lifted his arm, brushing away Joel's grip. "I'm fine."

He realized someone was screaming. On the bed, Lin was wailing, frantically clawing at the grip that Troy had around her shoulders as she stared at Vince's prostrate form on the floor.

"Stop fightin'!" Troy was yelling. "Stop, for god's sake! I ain't gonna hurt you!"

Troy's bandages had come undone in the struggle, hanging garishly from one shoulder like a bloody white rope and drawing fresh blood to stain that which had already caked beneath his torn ear.

"I'm fine," Tommy repeated, watching the scene with a surreal sense of detachment.

"Like hell he is." Tess pushed Joel aside and stood before Tommy, the candlelight licking angrily across the stark angles of her face as she glared at him. "Are you done freaking out? Because while you've been in La La Land, Troy's been dealing with that psychopath slut and I've got a dead body I need to do something with before the Feds arrive. Think you can make yourself fuckin' useful now?"

The derision in her tone scraped the fog from Tommy's mind far quicker than had Joel's alarm. Tommy felt his jaw clench. "I said I'm fuckin' fine," he growled.

"Fine," she snorted, then turned. "Troy! She is _half_ your goddamn size – shut her the hell up!"

Still screaming, Lin had managed to break one shoulder free of Troy's grasp, but as she jerked to try and free her other, Troy pulled his pistol from his belt and lifted it above her head. He brought it down quickly, cracking the butt of the gun against the side of her skull and tumbling her forward onto the bed in a tangle of limbs.

Breathing hard, Troy ground his teeth together and spat out a mouthful of blood, as if Lin's struggles had split the inside of his lip. He leaned over her, fingers feeling for a pulse at her neck. A second later, he grunted. "Just unconscious."

"Small blessings," Tess said sarcastically. "Now get outside with Hemmy and Rodger. We're leaving." She turned away from the bed.

Snatching up a piece of paper from the dining table, she advanced on Tommy and roughly shoved her palm against his chest, holding the piece of paper between her hand and his coat. "Now fuckin' grow a pair, Tommy. You and Joel get that body out into the hallway. _Now_."

She dropped her hand and turned away. Tommy caught the paper before it could flutter to the ground.

"Pin that note to his goddamn chest," Tess growled over her shoulder as she strode towards the kitchen.

Tommy held the paper up to the light. It was the final page from the notebook they had taken off the sergeant they had left dead at Moody's, recording Vince's payment of twelve cards for information unknown. Only now, scrawled across the page in sticky red blood, was something new.

_RAT._

Tommy closed his eyes and fought the bile rolling in the back of his throat.

"C'mon, Tommy," Joel suddenly said, nudging the side of Tommy's arm before stooping over Vince's body.

Teeth clenching, Tommy kicked aside the chair that Vince had been seated on and stooped as well, grabbing one of Vince's wrists as Joel grabbed the other. Together, they hauled the body around the dining table and through the kitchen, leaving a red smear across the carpet and linoleum. At the door, Hemmy stepped aside to give them room to drag the body out into the corridor beyond.

"Come on," Tess said impatiently, waving the others towards the stairwell as Tommy and Joel dropped Vince's prostrate form on the white tile floor outside the apartment door. "Time to move. The note, Tommy. Don't fuckin' forget it."

Tommy's lips pressed together as he bit back a retort.

"Just do it, Tommy," Joel muttered angrily as the others started jogging back down the hallway.

Shaking his head, Tommy crouched and unfurled the folded note. He hardly needed to pin it. Enough blood had dribbled down from the hole in Vince's head that the note stuck fast to the dead man's bare chest.

Joel's boots squeaked across the floor as he turned and started for the stairs. Tommy followed a second later, stepping over the body, ignoring the blood that was slowly pooling in the cracks between the tiles, smearing dark and red across the grimy white floor.

He could feel a deep tremble beginning to shake in his chest. Behind him, doors were creaking open, hushed whispers of horror echoing down the corridor. He could tell from the stick of his boots that he was leaving a trail of bloody footprints across the tile. And from his clenched fist, blood slowly dripped where his fingers had dug too deep into the palm of his hand.

* * *

><p><strong>As always, thank you all for reading and reviewing! If you've made it this far, you've read longer than most published novels, so I appreciate your continued interest and loyalty! Hopefully my long hiatus prior to Chapter 21 is somewhat made up for by cranking out this 10k words in just over two weeks. ;) In any event, just as my regular reminder, check my profile for progress reports as to when I expect to have a new update posted and Follow me or this story to get an email as soon as it's posted.<br>**

**Next update will likely be several weeks - I expect it to be a shorter chapter, but I do go onto this school competition next weekend, so my writing time will be limited. I may get a fair amount done this coming weekend, but I can't make promises. As always, check my profile!**

**Next time, when things heat up in Boston, Tommy reaches a breaking point. Stay tuned! :)**


	23. Chapter 23 - Dawn

Chapter 23

_August 27, 2020, Evening_

For a moment, the screeching static of the radio made Tommy's breath catch in his throat. He braced for disappointment, instinctively expecting either the thin whine of blank airspace or the slow drone of a broadcast on repeat. A forgotten memory dislodged itself from the back of his mind, an image of frightened faces, all gathered round an old battery-powered radio, numb shock and disbelief still rippling through the crowd as the moans and screams of an overrun triage echoed around them.

But this was different. There were twenty or thirty people gathered within the dusty old diner, each straining forward to hear the static that squelched out from the radio atop a dry fountain drink machine. But not a one of the faces were frightened, or shocked, or disbelieving. They were dirty and tired, but hard, like rusted iron that refused to break.

_Attention, attention. This is a broadcast of the Firefly underground movement. Standby._

A collective intake of breath swelled the tight space as people suddenly leaned forward, eagerness tightening across their shoulders. Tommy crossed his arms and pulled the ball cap he wore lower over his face, leaning against one wall. Despite the late summer heat, no one moved or shifted uncomfortably. All ears were now trained towards the radio. The male voice of the announcer quickly faded to static again, and for several seconds, only the low growl of empty airwaves echoed through the diner. Then—

_Hello, friends._

A woman's voice, calm yet direct, almost abrupt.

_You risk your lives to listen to this broadcast, so I will not waste your time. You know who I am, you know my voice. You also know what I do._

There was recognition in the faces of those listening, but Tommy suspected they recognized only the voice from prior broadcasts, not the person behind it. As his eyes wandered around those seated at the diner's dusty red booths and bar, he wondered how many knew the voice to be Marlene's.

_By now, many of you have likely heard rumors about Pittsburg and New York. Let these two former quarantine zones be examples of what Boston can become, one for better, one for worse. The rumors about Pittsburg are true. The city is free, its military dictators overthrown by a popular rebellion initiated by the joint efforts of the Fireflies and the New Weather Underground. The process of rebuilding has begun. Like Cleveland before it, Pittsburg has succeeded where so many zones have failed – it has dragged itself out from this time of darkness and seeks now to restore a democratic government of the people._

A tremor of excitement rippled through the listeners, some even flashing weary smiles and squeezing the shoulders of their comrades.

_ But New York?_ Marlene's voice continued._ New York is lost. What disease and starvation could not do, the military and chaos did instead. Hundreds of thousands of people rose up, but as hundreds of thousands of voices. The military had only to exploit that division. One voice, one movement. _That_ is what it will take. Otherwise Boston will become the next New York, a warzone of chaos and destruction, where the desperate and the powerful fight in the streets, and the infected overrun walls that no one guards._

Tommy felt his teeth clench and looked at the ground, vaguely recalling Troy's bitter account of the former Big Apple. Where Big Brian and Robin had been killed, by a couple of kids with assault rifles. That had been nearly two years ago, and by all accounts, New York had not improved since then.

_We have a choice. Boston has a choice. This is the time—_

"_Tommy_," someone hissed quietly behind him.

Tommy flinched, hand instinctively going to the knife on his belt as his head snapped around. Hemmy at least had had the good sense not to try and grab Tommy from behind, and he held his hands up now to put Tommy at ease.

"Jesus, Hem," Tommy muttered, shoulders falling as he relaxed. He kept his voice low, ignoring the radio squelching behind him. "I just about gutted you. What the hell are you doin' here?"

There was sweat across Hemmy's brow and he was breathing hard, chest heaving as if he had been running. He took a deep breath and steadied himself, leaning forward.

"He knows you're here."

Tommy's stomach lurched at Hemmy's sharp whisper. The other smuggler's expression was deadly serious, his brows knit together with a mix of urgency and anxiety.

"What?" Tommy said quietly, swallowing. "Who?"

"Who the hell do you think, Sherlock?" Hemmy whispered impatiently. "_Joel_, for god's sake."

Tommy's jaw tightened and he looked to the ceiling, a flash of irritation causing him to snort, even as his eyes darted restlessly towards the door. "Shiiit," he breathed out through clenched teeth. "How?"

Hemmy cocked his head to the side as if this were hardly the time for explanations. "Some druggie on the docks, I dunno," he said, speaking fast. "Heard you askin' questions about this place. Came and told Tess, lookin' for an extra card or something."

"Goddamnit," Tommy swore, rolling his eyes as he looked back to the radio. Those gathered were still standing in rapt attention as Marlene's garbled voice continue to cut through the diner.

_The darkness cannot last forever. The dawn will come, _is_ coming. Our—_

"Is Tess comin'?" Tommy muttered, glancing back at Hemmy.

"No," the younger man hissed. "She told Joel to handle it or she would. Which is why he's _on his fucking way_ and why I _fucking ran here_." It was Hemmy's turn to speak through clenched teeth now. "So can we _please_ go now?"

Anger boiled under Tommy's skin, but he gave a sharp nod and turned towards the door, trying to remain nonchalant as he weaved around other listeners, keeping his head down so the brim of his ball cap would continue to obscure his face.

_Every day,_ Marlene's voice crackled behind him,_ every step that we take, is leading us to that one horizon. You can still rise with us. Remember—_

Tommy paused at the exit and glanced back towards the radio, hand on the door's push bar.

_When you're lost in the darkness, look for the light. Believe in the Fireflies._

Shaking his head, he stepped outside and the stutter of the radio abruptly stopped as the door swung closed behind him.

"Come on," Hemmy muttered, nudging Tommy's elbow. "He'll be comin' from Area 3. This way." He turned right and started towards an alley that led away from the direction of Area 3.

"Tommy!"

Tommy had barely taken two steps after Hemmy. At the sharp bark of his name behind him, his shoulders sagged and his chin dipped towards his chest. Ahead of him, Hemmy spun around, eyes suddenly widening with the moan of a condemned man.

A pinched sigh escaped Tommy as he stopped, jaw tightening. "Joel," he muttered, turning.

"Jesus Christ, boy." Joel's features were obscured by the gray half-light of dusk, but he was shaking his head as he neared Tommy and Hemmy, passing the diner door and joining them at the mouth of the alleyway they had been headed for.

"Joel, hey now," Hemmy interjected, holding up his hands and moving to Tommy's side. "Just hold on a minute, okay? This isn't—"

"Shut up, Hem," Joel growled. His voice was low, but controlled. While he sounded far from pleased, it did at least seem he was not ready to launch into a rage. Yet, at least. "How the hell did you get here before me?"

Hemmy snorted, crossing his arms. "Youth and stupidity, old man."

"You think this is funny?" Joel said, unamused.

Hemmy did not reply.

"Lay off, Joel," Tommy said sharply, irritation snapping across his tongue. "Hem, just get outta here." He jerked his head, lips pressing together as he shot a pointed look at Hemmy. The younger man cast a sideways glance at Joel, then back to Tommy, brow lifting as if fully prepared to stay as Tommy's wingman.

"I'm fine," Tommy muttered, jerking his head again. "Go on."

Joel clenched one side of his jaw as he watched Hemmy retreat. The smuggler threw a sigh back at the brothers as he rolled his eyes, then disappeared down the alleyway.

Joel crossed his arms once Hemmy was gone. His eyes wandered to the front of the diner behind them, the windows papered over with yellowing newspapers. But when Joel finally looked back to Tommy, he tipped his head to the side and said nothing, as if silently demanding an explanation.

For a second, Tommy held his brother's glare. The muscles around Joel's jaw and neck were working, as if Joel were slowly grinding his teeth, but his expression was otherwise still. It was disapproving, impatient, irritated, fed up.

There were a hundred things Tommy wanted to say. Which is why he said nothing at all.

With an angry snort, he turned on his heel and started down the alley.

"Hey!" Joel barked. Tommy could hear Joel's footsteps behind him. "Hey! You got nothin' to say about this?"

"Nope," Tommy grunted, shoving his hands into his pockets.

From behind, Joel's fingers wrapped around Tommy's shoulder, roughly jerking Tommy to a standstill. He turned to face his brother, teeth clenched.

"You swore," Joel said, anger finally clouding his expression. "You swore, right to my face, that you weren't goin' to these things. You said you wouldn't."

"Yeah well, I lied, Joel," Tommy returned, impatiently throwing off his brother's grip. He held up his hands. "Sue me."

"Stop!" Joel barked again, grabbing the front of Tommy's greasy shirt when Tommy made as if to turn away again. "Do you even know what you're doin', Tommy?"

"I'm _listening_. That's it, Joel. It's a goddamn broadcast." Tommy pointed back in the direction of the diner, his eyes narrowing with a look of impatience. "You think anybody back there is a Firefly? They're just regular people, Joel. They wouldn't know a Firefly to look at one."

"You think the Feds will _care_?" Joel growled in return, releasing Tommy and shaking his head. "Christ, Tommy. It don't matter. You get caught listenin' to that bullshit, they'll shoot you. In the head, broad daylight, no questions asked. You're gonna risk that just so you can listen to _propaganda_?"

"It ain't propaganda."

"Yeah? 'Cause you know how?"

Tommy pressed his lips together. "I ain't doin' this, Joel. It ain't your business what I do on my time."

"Like hell," Joel said, running a hand through his sweaty hair. "You keep on like this, Tommy, you're gonna get shot. And maybe you don't believe me, but I'd actually like to keep that from happenin'. So it _is_ my business."

The two brothers stood staring at one another, each scowling in the semi-darkness, sweat glistening beneath their eyes. Joel's tone and manner had suggested a grudging, growling sort of worry, but Tommy offered no answer. It was an argument that they had been replaying for years, and neither of them would ever win. Like a broken record that cracked a little more each time it was played. Again, Tommy found himself considering a hundred different replies, and again, he chose only stubborn silence instead.

"For god's sake," Joel grunted impatiently, shaking his head and throwing his hands angrily into the air. "Never mind. We'll finish this later. Tess is pissed enough at you as it is, so we ain't gonna be late for tonight's job. C'mon."

* * *

><p>The shotgun rattled as Tommy slid a cartridge into the magazine and pushed it forward, balancing the long gun across one knee as he couched the butt in the crook of his elbow. Boston's oppressive summer heat and humidity had barely abated with the onset of full darkness and Tommy found himself periodically wiping sweaty hands on his jeans, ignoring the sticky wetness that clung to his shirt and neck.<p>

Lantern light flickered around the room, glinting off the barrel of the pump-action shotgun in Tommy's lap, as well as a half dozen other firearms and blades. The smuggling gang worked in relative silence, Tommy and Troy seated at the dining table, Hemmy and Rodger on the lip of the brick fireplace. Through the kitchen door, Joel and Tess could be heard speaking in low voices.

"Rodge, any rounds for the .45?" Troy grumbled, absently looking up from a kid's pencil box filled with a hodgepodge of cartridges of different calibers. He was thumbing the magazine of a heavy gray pistol that lay broken apart on the table before him.

Rodger was dragging a whetstone along the blade of a long hunting knife, a cigarette pinched between his lips. He glanced up with a bored look, then grabbed a dusty Ziplock bag sagging with a similar odd assortment of rounds. After fingering the bag for a second, he shook his head. "Sorry, boss. Nothing."

Troy grimaced unhappily and tossed the magazine for the .45 to the table and pushed the gun away. "Damnit," he muttered. "Got two rounds for the thing. Ain't worth the weight for two rounds. Keep an eye out for .45s, boys. I like this gun, don't like leavin' it."

They lapsed into silence again as Troy reached out and grabbed the barrel of his familiar black hunting rifle, which had been leaning against the edge of the table. Tommy yawned and shoved another shell into his shotgun.

"Hey Tommy," Hemmy said, bringing Tommy's attention up again. "So…you're in one piece, huh?"

Tommy shook his head and smiled. "We haven't finished the argument yet. Thanks for tryin' though."

"Oh," the younger man returned, grinning. "How very sporting of Joel, to leave you in one piece until we finish the job."

"Yeah, I guess," Tommy chuckled.

Rodger snorted. "That's our Joel, always the practical one."

"Somebody's gotta be," Troy scoffed, shaking his head.

Tommy gave a half-grin at the low laughs that circled the dark living room. Out of the corner of his eye, however, he caught the sidelong glance that Troy threw his direction.

"Somethin' you wanna say, Troy?" Tommy sighed, more resigned than hostile.

"Nope," Troy grunted.

Tommy snorted. "Yeah, I doubt that," he said, shaking his head again. "Go on, get it out. Betcha you're just dyin' to say somethin' about how familiar this all is. How it's like when I left before, when I dragged Joel and Annie out with me."

Troy had popped the magazine out from his rifle and begun pressing long hollow-point rounds into the top of it, but he paused to fix Tommy with an unfazed expression, a stare both bored and unimpressed. He kept his gaze on Tommy for several seconds, lips pursed, then abruptly shrugged and shook his head, looking back to the magazine he had been loading.

"Nah," he muttered. "I reckon you're changed a bit since then. And I know for a fact that smugglin' don't bother you near as much as what we were doin' back then."

Tommy's eyes narrowed and his brows drew together. "It ain't the smugglin'," he said after a second, echoing Troy's shrug. "I'm just sick of this place. The Feds. Puttin' up with what we do."

Unexpectedly, Troy let a low chuckle escape him, though he did not look up from his work. "That's the difference between you and Joel. Joel lives around this bullshit. But you? You gotta go and live through it."

"Jesus, boss," Hemmy snickered. "That's almost poetic."

Troy only snorted.

The rumble of voices from the kitchen briefly brought Tommy's glance up again, though he could not see Joel or Tess. That was the way jobs seemed to go these days – Joel and Tess putting plans together in a separate room while the rest of them spent their time checking firearms and other supplies.

Troy seemed to catch Tommy's glance.

"Guess they're gettin' on," Tommy muttered, keeping his voice low as he spoke sidelong to Troy.

The big man just shrugged.

"It don't bother you?" Tommy said.

Troy glanced up. "Why should it?"

"Thought you and Tess used to be inseparable."

"What?" Troy snorted, shaking his head. "Nah. Worked jobs together, sure, but nah. We were both mostly workin' solo before you showed up."

Tommy lifted the shotgun off his knee and swiftly jerked back on the fore-end, pumping a shell into the chamber. With the gun readied, he gently propped it up against the edge of the table, beside Troy's rifle. Next grabbing a limp gas mask from the center of the table, Tommy wet a finger and began wiping smudges from the inside of the mask's two eye holes.

"So you two," he continued, nodding absently towards the kitchen. "You never…?"

Tommy drifted off and glanced up, a half-smirk working its way across his face. Troy paused, eyes narrowing as he twisted and placed a hand on his knee, fixing Tommy with a long stare. A half smile crept into his expression, as if amused at the boldness of a particularly plucky child.

"Do I look like the jealous lover type to you?" he rumbled, although he too kept his voice low. This was Tess they were talking about, after all. He paused, then shook his head, snorting. "Once."

Rodger and Hemmy looked up, their preparations abruptly forgotten as they stifled grins.

Troy waved dismissively. "We were both drunk. I wouldn't do it again."

Tommy straightened, lifting an eyebrow.

"No, I mean," Troy held up a hand, still muttering low as he shrugged. "She was…just fine. Just, if all you're lookin' for is a bit of tail, there's a helluva lotta options less likely to kill ya."

Hemmy couldn't contain a muffled chortle, though Rodger jabbed an elbow into the younger man's side, causing him to turn red as he once again fought to stifle his amusement.

"Shut up, you moron," Troy snorted, returning his attention to the magazine he had been loading.

Again, the four of them settled into a comfortable silence broken only by the rattle of ammunition and the gentle metallic ring of blades and guns being moved about. In the kitchen, Tommy could still hear Tess and Joel's muffled voices, occasionally growing more forceful, then quieting, then becoming sharp again. Tommy blinked sweat from his eyes and watched it glisten on the back of his hand in the lantern light as he worked.

"Anyway," Troy muttered after a minute, not looking up, "I doubt it's me and Tess you're worried about."

Tommy glanced sideways. "What?"

Troy shrugged. "You actin' concerned about me and Tess. That ain't it. You know it." He lifted his gaze finally and shook his head, half smirking at Tommy's questioning expression. "C'mon, Tommy. You did the same thing before, when we were on the road. You figured I was a bad influence on Joel, just like you figure Tess is now."

Tommy stared at Troy for a second, then straightened and set the gas mask he had been cleaning aside. "What the hell does that mean?"

"The problem with you two," Troy returned, practically rolling his eyes, "is that you're both convinced you can just talk the other into seein' your way. Ever occur to ya that maybe you just ain't the same?"

All the time, Tommy wanted to say, but he didn't. He just continued staring at Troy, lips parting slowly as he struggled to find some reply.

"Ain't a bad thing," Troy sighed, dropping his gaze and shrugging again. "I actually figure you're a lot like Judge." His voice broke slightly, as if he had not intended to say the name aloud, or at least not expected to have any trouble speaking of the old man. For half a second, his eyes darted up to Tommy, then flicked down again as he roughly cleared his throat. "Just…it just means you're always gonna be lookin' for somethin' else. Somethin' you reckon's better. And maybe you oughta stop expectin' your brother to follow."

Tommy took a breath as if about to reply, but the thump of boots in the kitchen silenced him. A moment later, Tess and Joel emerged, each shrugging into backpacks and tucking pistols into their belts.

"Ready?" Joel grunted, eyeing Tommy first, then letting his gaze slide around the room.

"Yessir," Hemmy replied cheerfully, standing. He ignored the half-hearted glare that Joel shot him, a remnant of Joel's disapproval from earlier in the evening.

Troy thumped a black flashlight down on the corner of the dining table, which Tess grabbed and flicked on and off, testing it. "Good," she said tersely before she pocketed the light. "Donny says it's a group of six looking to get in. They'll be at the old First Republic bank on Milk Street. Bigger group and farther out than we've had in a while, and the Feds are still on Alert Level 1 after that fucking Firefly attack at the Prince Street ammunition depot yesterday. So we do this right." She angled her wrist so the flicker of lantern light shone on the face of a scarred leather watch. "It's 8:25 now. Next patrol should leave the southeast tunnel open in 20 minutes. We good?"

They nodded.

"Then let's move."

* * *

><p><em>August 28, 2020, Dawn<em>

"Okay, listen up!"

The group of newcomers hardly need to be told twice. Tess had barely raised her voice, but they snapped to attention at the sharpness of her tone, huddling together as she addressed them, one hand on her hip, the other still grasping her pistol.

"Welcome to the Boston QZ," she continued, though her welcome was all business and no warmth. "You are now in what we call Area 6, in the southeastern corner of the zone."

They stood amidst a long plaza of brick and gray stones, glass-fronted storefronts with broken faces lining the buildings on either side of them. Elm trees ran the length of the plaza, gangly from lack of trimming, and sales carts fashioned like old wagons lay overturned on their sides. This place had once been an outdoor marketplace, before being converted to emergency housing and storage for the thousands streaming into the Boston QZ in the early days. Now it was empty and eerily quiet, little more than a buffer area between the walls and the rest of the zone.

Tommy stepped up beside one of the newcomers and tugged on a corner of the black hood that covered the woman's head. She gasped in surprise as the hood came off and she stood blinking in the gray light of pre-dawn, but as her eyes adjusted and she focused on Tommy, she swallowed and nodded, mouthing a silent _thank you_ as Tess carried on speaking. Tommy only pressed his lips together and balled the hood in his hands, looking away.

In Baltimore, a lifetime ago, Jan had once said there were two types of roadies. The gratefuls and the rebels. From the way this group stared at Tess, eyes wide and shining with an almost tearful reverence, it was not difficult to guess they fell into the former of the two.

Tess seemed to ignore the gratitude emanating in her direction. "Now, in Area 5, north and east of here, you will need to find a forger named Cooper, who can provide you a full QZ visa and ration booklet. To access Area 5, you will use Checkpoint 4-A, where you will wait until a soldier named Raines is on duty and in charge of checking visas. She's black, just under six feet tall, and wears her hair up with a knot at the back. Approach any other Fed at the checkpoint with these—" she held up what looked like one of the black, passport-style QZ visas, "—and you will be arrested. Are there any questions?"

None of the newcomers said anything. Without a word, Hemmy and Rodger began passing out a handful of the black visas to the huddled group. The visas were blank on the inside, just a thin sheaf of papers with a shell wrapped around them bearing the stamp of the Boston QZ.

Tommy stepped back from the group, tossing away the hood he had removed and wiping a sweaty hand beneath his eyes. Dirt from the smuggler's tunnel still caked the lines of his palm and clung to his shirt and jeans. He glanced at Joel, who stood beside him, arms crossed.

"Let's hope they're more subtle than the last group we brought in," Tommy muttered out of the side of his mouth.

"Hm," Joel grunted, lips thin. "Heard one of 'em talkin' back at the mouth of the tunnel. They're from New York. Means they're either lucky, or they're rabid crazies that somehow survived that place. My money's on luck. Either way, I doubt they got much road sense."

Tommy nodded slowly. Refugees from New York had been common for the last year. Most were either turned away or mowed down at the gates. Beyond the walls, Checkpoint Charlie had been dismantled after repeated attacks by a hostile camp of refugees somewhere to the west. Plumes of smoke and the sound of gunfire were now nearly as common outside the walls as they were within.

Tommy looked back towards Tess.

"Which brings us to payment," she was saying, having just finished a brief explanation of the layout of Boston. She pointed to two men at the front of the newcomers. "You two are already square with the guns and ammunition you traded. But the rest of you? Once you have your ration books, you will receive 14 ration cards every week – one for breakfast, one for dinner. Three of your cards will come to me, every week for the next four months."

Several of the newcomers began quietly turning to one another, exchanging sullen looks and grumbled mutters. Tess's next words snapped across them like a whip. "This zone is barely a quarter mile square, ladies and gentlemen," she said sharply. "If you _forget_ to bring me three cards each week, you will not be difficult to find and remind. Are we clear?"

Only muted nods answered her.

"Good," she continued. She held up her wrist, checking her watch. "Now, it is 5:45am. Private Raines will be on duty starting at 10:30, so I suggest you find some place quiet to wait until th—"

Tess abruptly stopped talking as the erratic stutter of gunfire suddenly cracked across the sky, echoing up and down the plaza. It sounded uncomfortably close, perhaps on the other side of one of the long buildings that formed a side of the former marketplace.

Troy, who had been leaning against one of the tall elms that lined the plaza, cradling his black rifle in one arm, quickly straightened and lifted his head. His let his lips part as his eyes unfocused, listening. "Heavy caliber," he grunted. "At least a coupla automatics. Maybe a dozen—" A distant explosion caused him to flinch, at which he turned towards Tess with clenched teeth. "Grenades. Fireflies. I'd stake my life on it."

"Damnit," Tess said impatiently. She waved at the group huddled before her. "Get the hell out of here, all of you!"

She did not need to repeat herself. The newcomers instantly scattered, several darting towards nearby vacant stores while the others scrambled up the plaza in the direction opposite the gunfire.

"C'mon!" Joel yelled, grabbing both Tommy and Hemmy by the sleeves and shoving them ahead of him, pushing them not in the direction the newcomers had fled, but instead towards the other end of the long plaza.

The smugglers sprinted past storefronts with shattered windows and plundered interiors, weaving around park benches that had been wrenched from the ground and large, squat flower pots with dead plants that had been spilled on their sides. The clatter of gunfire was growing closer now, somewhere beyond the long market building on their left. As he ran, Tommy grasped his shotgun with both hands, conscious of how slick the Boston humidity had made his grip. Joel was just behind him, Rodger and Hemmy several feet ahead, while Tess and Troy were bringing up the rear.

Suddenly glass exploded to Tommy's left, blowing out from the front of one of the long, low buildings that formed one side of the plaza. Without thinking, Tommy hit the ground, elbows and knees scraping across the pavement as he scrambled for cover behind one of the upturned sales carts that resembled an old-fashioned wagon. Battered boxes with smart phone covers in blue and red and sparkles were scattered across the ground

Breathing hard, Tommy pushed himself into a sitting position with his back against the cart, knees drawn to his chest. He twisted to find Joel beside him, having likewise wriggled to cover behind the cart.

"You okay?" Tommy whispered.

Joel nodded and swallowed, blinking as sweat rolled into his eyes. "Fine. Where the hell are the others?"

Tommy craned his head slightly to look back the way they had come from and gave a pinched sigh of relief as he spotted Troy peering out from behind a second upturned cart, this one strewn with a dirty assortment of faded handbags. A second later, Tess's head appeared beside him. She pointed towards herself and Troy and held up her fingers to indicate they were both OK.

"Tess and Troy are behind that other wagon," Tommy grunted as he twisted away from them to look in the direction their group had originally been fleeing. "Where's Rodger and—"

The deafening roar of heavy rifles silenced Tommy in an instant, causing him to cringe back behind their makeshift cover. Joel had been lifting himself up on one knee to look over the cart, but he too abruptly ducked down again, eyes screwing shut at the sound of bullets ripping through storefronts and scattering broken glass across the pavement.

There was shouting now too, sharp barked bellows that joined with the scrape of boots pounding across the plaza and the squelch of handheld radios. Keeping his head low, Tommy peeked around the side of the cart he and Joel hunkered behind. He could see men and women in civilian clothing darting in and out of cover, some wearing helmets, but most with little more than their wits as protection. They were beating a hasty retreat across the plaza, spilling out from the building that had exploded a moment earlier and sprinting towards broken shop fronts, presumably in hopes of finding backdoors at the rear to make good their escape. Ten, fifteen, twenty. Tommy could not see all of them from his vantage, but they were scattered and disordered, many nursing bloody limbs or supporting wounded comrades.

Next came the uniforms. Soldiers in FEDRA blue, many moving with the bulk of body armor. They seemed just as raggedly stretched out as the fleeing Fireflies, as if this firefight had devolved to an out and out chase some time ago, but that the military was winning, there could be little doubt. They wielded assault rifles and heavy pistols, laying down a blanket of fire that dropped many of the fleeing rebels to the ground with cries of pain, bloody holes suddenly punched across their backs.

"Shit," Joel hissed beside Tommy, pressing his sweaty brow against the underside of the flipped cart as they listened to the carnage around them. Occasionally, the cart shivered with the thunk of a stray bullet. "We're good, we're good. They ain't seen us. We just let 'em get past. Just sit steady, okay?"

Tommy swallowed and nodded, fighting every instinct in his body that yelled for him to either start firing or get the hell out of Dodge. Once again, he risked a peek around the side of the cart and instantly a flood of relief heaved through him. Forty feet away, he could see Hemmy and Rodger on their stomachs, shielded partially by a stone park bench and partially by a red and white checkered stand that proudly proclaimed _Hand Roasted Nuts_ in peeling letters. It was poor cover – anyone pursuing the fleeing rebels could look back and see them – but on their stomachs as they were, they might just be mistaken for the dead.

"Hem and Rodger," Tommy whispered breathlessly to his brother. "They're on the ground ahead. Think they're okay."

Joel nodded.

The firefight raged for just a handful of minutes as Fireflies fled from one building to the other, the military in hot pursuit. But by the time the crack and boom of gunfire had died, Tommy's ears were ringing like church bells. He wiped sweat from the tip of his nose as he listened breathlessly to the silence that slowly filled the plaza, broken only by the increasingly distant stutter of the battle that was rapidly leaving them behind. Gradually, the ringing in Tommy's ears faded to a low whine and he slowly turned to Joel, lifting a brow.

"I think they're gone," Joel muttered. A second later, the corner of his mouth twitched upward with relief.

"Holy shit."

Tommy recognized Hemmy's voice. Grinning, Tommy twisted to look around the edge of the cart and started to come to his feet, a giddy sort of disbelief suddenly making his limbs shaky as he tried to rise.

"_Hands in the fucking air!_"

Tommy's stomach flipped. He sank back against the cart so quickly that he was certain someone had to hear his back thump against the rotting wood.

"Jesus Christ," Joel growled, his voice abruptly pinched with tension again.

"_Get up! I said get up! Both of you! Hands where we can see them!_"

Almost holding his breath, Tommy inched his head around the side of the cart, warily trying to see what was happening. Rodger and Hemmy were on their feet, their hands in the air. Though their faces were still streaked with dirt from the smuggling tunnel, they had apparently discarded their firearms in an effort to appear non-threatening. Two soldiers faced them, their backs partially to Tommy, but both clearly pointing pistols at Rodger and Hemmy.

"Oh Jesus," Tommy breathed through clenched teeth. "Two of 'em, Joel. They're right fuckin' on top of Hem and Rodger. Maybe we can get 'em from here, but—"

"Hold on, Tommy," Joel whispered, grabbing Tommy's forearm as if he expected his brother to go rushing off without further thought. "No way. You've got a shotgun and I've got a goddamn pistol. At this range, you'll hit Rodger and Hemmy with that thing. And I can't get both Feds at once. One of 'em's gonna have time to squeeze off a shot before I can get to him."

Tommy ground his teeth together, forcing himself to swallow as he listened to the exchange going on forty feet away.

"On your knees, Fireflies!" one of the soldiers was shouting. His radio was squawking with heavily garbled static that Tommy could not make out.

"We're not goddamn Fireflies!" That was Rodger, followed a second later by Hemmy's voice. "We swear, man! Not Fireflies!"

"Sure you're not. I said on your fucking knees! Hands where we can see them!"

"Where are you retreating to?" Another unfamiliar voice, probably the second soldier. "Where are you fucking rabble running away to?"

"We don't know, you asshole! We're not fuckin' Fireflies!"

"I said fucking tell me or I'm gonna blow your fucking brains out!'

"We're not Fireflies! We're not Fireflies!"

Both smugglers and both soldiers were shouting over one another, a mix of fear and anger tangling in their voices as their yelling ricocheted up and down the plaza. Tommy's heart started to race until he could barely swallow and a tremble began to rattle in his stomach. Suddenly without thinking, he propped his shotgun against the cart beside Joel and snatched the pistol from his brother's hand.

"Tommy, what the hell—" Joel started to say, shocked, but Tommy was already standing, swiftly tucking the pistol in his back waistband.

"_Hey!_"

At the sound of Tommy's sharp call-out, the soldiers abruptly broke off their interrogation of Rodger and Hemmy, whirling around to face the threat that approached them from behind. Tommy kept his hands well above his head.

"Just calm down, fellas," Tommy said, though his own voice shook slightly as he stared down the barrel of one of the soldiers' pistols. The other had quickly swiveled back to point his gun at Rodger and Hemmy. Tommy continued, taking slow steps towards the group of four. "We're not Fireflies, okay? I swear. We were just here lookin' for shit, that's all."

"Keep your hands up!" the soldier aiming at Tommy shouted. "And get out in the open, right where I can see you, straggler. Come on, nice and slow."

Tommy did as the soldier said, gently moving towards where the plaza opened up and cover became scarce. He continued taking slow steps in their direction. "Listen, we can show you our papers. We're not Fireflies, I swear."

"Shut up!" the second soldier snapped, looking at Tommy though he continued to keep his pistol trained on Rodger and Hemmy. "Frankie, keep your gun on the fucker. No way these sons a bitches aren't Fireflies!"

"I fucking _know_, Jeff!"

Tommy's jaw tightened again. He was barely 15 feet away now. "No, look, we're not Fireflies. We can show you our papers. Look, take us in, we got no record, any of us. Please, fellas, c'mon."

The soldier called Frankie shook his gun suddenly. "Stop! Stop moving!" Tommy came to a halt, hands still raised. In the half-light of dawn, beads of sweat gleamed across the soldier's brow. "Just stop, okay?" Frankie continued, his voice raising an octave with obvious fear. Perhaps there was a reason these two had straggled behind the main company of soldiers. "Just, just—fucking Christ, just let me think for a sec."

"Frankie," the other soldier, Jeff, snapped. "What the hell?"

"I said just give me a sec!"

It was Hemmy's turn now to try and diffuse the situation. He shook his head, keeping his hands raised high. "Hey, man, come on. Just let us show you our papers, okay? I swear we're not Fi—"

The discharge of the pistol cracked across the plaza.

Tommy was close enough to see the splatter of blood that slopped across the pavement as the bullet tore through Hemmy's head and careened out the other side. The young man's knees buckled beneath him and he toppled sideways, dead long before he hit the ground.

For a second, Tommy couldn't breathe. Shocked silence slapped him across the face. Rodger and both soldiers were frozen, eyes wide and mouths aghast as if hanging at the edge of a cliff and about to plummet over the side.

"_You fuckin' bastards!_" Rodger suddenly screamed, fury twisting his features.

"Jesus, Jeff! Oh Jesus!"

"Frankie, pull it together or drop that Firefly!"

All at once, the shouting began again, this time laden with panic and fury and uncertainty. The two soldiers were shouting at each other, and at Rodger and Tommy, and Rodger was raging at them, hands balled into fists as if he could not decide whether to rush the two soldiers or drop to his knees at Hemmy's side.

And all at once, Tommy felt something within him break. The tremble in his limbs vanished and his face suddenly felt oddly dead. Without warning, he dropped his hands, yanked the pistol from his back waistband, and pulled the trigger.

Twice.

Neither soldier was wearing a helmet. Their heads jerked violently – first one, then the other – as a spray of blood exploded out the other side. Wordlessly, they dropped to the ground like sacks of wet flour.

There was no stunned silence this time. As soon as the soldiers hit the pavement, Rodger was leaping over the body of his fallen friend, spitting and ranting as he started to kick the two dead uniforms first once, then again, then again. "You fuckin' bastards! You goddamned, shitfaced, fuckin' bastards! What the hell? What the fuckin' hell's wrong with you! He's just a kid! He's a fuckin' kid!"

Time passed. Tommy stood unmoving, holding his pistol limply at his side as he watched Rodger take out his fury on the prostrate forms of the two soldiers. At the touch of fingers on his shoulder, Tommy flinched slightly, but he relaxed as he turned to find Joel beside him. His brother's expression was somber and serious, eyes pinched with a mix of concern and wariness as he searched Tommy's face.

"You okay?" Joel asked quietly.

Tommy swallowed, dropping his gaze. Rodger had abandoned his abuse of the dead soldiers and collapsed weakly to his knees at Hemmy's side, where he was gently, reverently pulling his friend's head into his lap to cradle it. Tears were slowly running down Rodger's grimy cheeks and disappearing into his goatee, now specked with spittle. Fingers dirty, he shakily brushed Hemmy's blond-red hair, now more red than blond, out of the young man's ruin of a face.

Tommy looked up again at the sound of boots behind them, but it was only Tess and Troy, silently approaching with expressions as somber as Joel's.

"No," Tommy said finally, his voice scraping. "No, I'm not."

He turned, gently shrugging away his brother's grasp.

"Hey, Tommy?" Joel said with surprise. "Tommy, where you going?"

Tommy did not stop. He did not even look behind him as he started to pace away from their broken little group.

"Hey!" Joel called out, more sharply this time. "Tommy, what're you doin'?"

Tommy's eyes swept across the pavement, lingering half a second on each of the bloody bodies of dead rebels that he passed.

"I'm goin' to join the fuckin' Fireflies."

* * *

><p><strong>As always, thanks for reading and reviewing! And this time in particular, thank you for your patience in waiting for this latest update. I was definitely feeling burned out following my competition as I've tried to catch up on everything else that got put on hold in the lead up to it. Now, exams are next week, then I've all the rest of May school-free! After that, I'm into my summer semester, which is always easier for me. So start to look for regular updates again, every one to two weeks. :)<strong>

**Next time, we pick up right where this chapter left off. Follow Tommy and Joel as they get a taste of the inner machinations that drive the Firefly underground movement. But once they get that glimpse beneath the surface, will they be allowed to leave unscathed?**


	24. Chapter 24 - Union Dues

Chapter 24

_August 28, 2020, Dawn_

Footsteps echoed behind Tommy.

Down here, the darkness was perfect, utterly undisturbed save for the thin beam of Tommy's flashlight as it rippled across walls of white and yellow tile and over the dusty hoods of cars. Every sound was amplified, every scuffed boot a sharp ricochet from wall to ceiling. Despite the darkness, the tunnel around Tommy felt almost cavernous, a subtle lightness of the air which, rather than putting a body at ease, encouraged a creeping sense that something was always behind you. It was no cramped and confined smuggler's passage, but it hardly invited the casual visitor.

Not that the darkness and thin oxygen did much to disquiet Tommy these days. Boston's vast former network of sewers, subways, and car tunnels were failing to age and disrepair and brought the constant threat of spores or infected, but if you could get past all of that, they were a smuggler's paradise.

No, it was the echoing stamp of boots behind him that made Tommy clench his teeth.

"I'm not changin' my mind, Joel," he called out, turning his head slightly.

There was no answer but continued footsteps. Shaking his head, Tommy stepped over a fallen light fixture but did not stop. His flashlight skimmed over ranks of abandoned cars caught in an eternal traffic jam deep below the earth's surface.

"Go back, Joel," Tommy called out again. "I ain't stoppin', I told you."

Still, only the footsteps responded.

Ignoring his annoyance, Tommy pressed a hand against one of the walls of the narrow walkway raised above the tunnel's lanes of traffic. Leaning against a handrail, he lifted himself over a jagged slab of cement that had fallen from the ceiling. A few seconds later, he heard the footsteps behind him break rhythm as they too scrambled over the broken slab.

"Jesus," Tommy finally snapped, grinding to a halt and turning. "What the hell do you want if you ain't gonna say anything?"

His flashlight cut through the inky blackness, the yellow beam catching Joel in the face some 20 feet behind. Joel held up a hand and squinted, his face and hair appearing oddly colorless with the contrast between stark darkness and sudden light. Tommy quickly dropped the beam to the ground, but he cocked his head to the side with irritation.

"Are you done?" Joel said, coming closer. His tone was perturbed, but unexpectedly patient.

Tommy's brows drew together and he spread his arms. "Am I _done_? What, were you plannin' on just waitin' til I shout myself hoarse?"

Joel took a slow, deep breath, working his jaw. He sounded as if he were forcing himself to remain calm. "If that's what it takes."

Tommy's eyes narrowed and he shifted, frowning as damp cement dust scraped underfoot. The tunnel's yellowing tiles were slick with water damage. "For what?" he said. "If that's what it takes for what?"

"For you to get your head back on," Joel grunted. He stood before Tommy now, still blinking at the glare from Tommy's flashlight. But his expression was stony and gray, unyielding. He pointed a finger. "You shout at me all you want. You get that shit outta your head, throw a fit, I don't care. But then you get yourself right again."

Tommy dropped his arms. For a second, he simply let his lips part, but he slowly began to shake his head. "Jesus," he said, making a disbelieving sound.

"I'm serious, Tommy," Joel continued, jaw tightening. "You're upset, fine. But you figure that out and move on. You don't join some goddamn militia."

A flash of irritation shot down Tommy's neck and he pressed his lips together. Joel was being so calm, so controlled. Yet he was playing the Big Brother card with practiced ease, his tone never once suggesting that anything less than full cooperation was required.

Tommy slowly clenched a fist as he stared at his brother, but he kept his voice low, tight. "This is blowin' off steam to you? If I wanted to get angry, Joel, I'd get drunk. This isn't me gettin' angry. This is just me makin' a decision, that's it."

"To join the Fireflies?"

"Yeah."

Joel grimaced sharply as if his patience was waning. "So to get yourself killed then? That's the decision you're makin'."

"Can't be much worse odds than we got now," Tommy snapped. "At least it'd mean somethin' then. Not just gettin' shot in the middle of the street for no fuckin' reason."

"And you wanna get shot in the middle of the street for what then? Freedom? Democracy?" He said the words with a disdainful scowl. "'Cause you'll still get shot, just the same. You think those dead Fireflies felt good about themselves before they got killed? Think they thought it was worth it?"

"Yeah, I do."

"Well, I guess we'll never know."

Tommy clamped his mouth shut, swallowing an angry retort, then shook his head. "Troy's right," he muttered, a sharp sigh briefly breaking the slow breaths he was forcing himself to take. "All we do is argue circles around each other, Joel. I'm not tryin' to make you understand anymore. This ain't about you. Ain't about Tess, or what we do, or any of it. It's just somethin' I gotta do. I'm sorry."

With that, he turned, his flashlight beam skittering across the tops of rusting cars. He had gone half a dozen paces before his brother's voice cut through the darkness behind him again, this time sharper, less patient, more annoyed.

"What the hell did you think was gonna happen anyway?"

Tommy felt as if something had caught in his throat. His brows drew together, eyes narrowing.

"What?" he asked slowly, turning.

Joel had his head tipped slightly to the side, his hands held out as if asking an obvious question. His expression remained stern, but he was shaking his head as if explaining something to a child. "What did you think was gonna happen?" he repeated. "When you stood up and went out there. That you were gonna save 'em? Just talk those Feds outta doin' whatever they planned on doin'? Did you think they'd be _less_ nervous knowin' they were dealin' with _three_ stragglers instead of _two_?"

He still wasn't shouting, but Joel's words were like a slap across the face. Tommy's lips parted.

"Well?" Joel growled. "What did you think was gonna happen? How did you possibly see that endin' any way other than the way it did?"

Somewhere in the darkness was a faint steady drip, gently tapping every second or so from a burst water line somewhere above the tunnel.

And somewhere above that, amidst a plaza strewn with broken glass and toppled fake wagons, was a dead man with a blond-red beard and long hair, deep lines around his eyes born from an easy smile.

"Fuck you."

Tommy barely raised his voice above a mutter, but it snapped through the echoing depths of the tunnel. Even if Joel could not see his expression in the darkness, Tommy stared hard at his brother, equal parts sick and angry at Joel's implication. Then, without another word, Tommy turned and started back down the raised walkway.

This time, no footsteps echoed behind him.

* * *

><p>"You're sure?"<p>

Tommy nodded.

The interior of the _Salem Mini Mart_ was dark and musty, cloaked in only dirty brown light broken by a small battery-powered lantern. The haphazard scatter of card tables were empty and strewn with wrinkled playing cards and glasses, but at this early hour, the narrow store was still and silent.

Warren was staring at Tommy, frowning around an expression crowded with both suspicion and question. But his manner, at least, was not as it had been when Tommy had first visited the shop. Beneath the dark circles that rimmed the Firefly's eyes and the sheen of sweat that had broken out across his head, just a hint of a smile was tugging at one corner of his mouth.

"Okay," Warren said finally, his smirk growing slightly. "Okay. Wait here."

The Firefly disappeared towards the market's backroom, ducking past a pair of moldy curtains and leaving Tommy to wait in the dim glow of the lantern that sat atop the old cashier's counter. Tommy gently set his flashlight on the counter, thumbing at the red dirt that was caked into the crevices around the light's lens. As he did so, he noticed for the first time that several flecks of blood clung to the back of his hand. Grimacing, he rubbed at the skin, but the blood had dried stubbornly in place.

The sound of footsteps brought his attention up again and he lifted his gaze just in time to see Warren push back through the curtains. They parted again a second later.

Marlene had allowed her short black hair to grow out since Tommy had first met her outside of Baltimore. It was long enough now that she had tied it back in a tail, bushy and curly around her narrow face. Her expression was as crisp and assessing as ever, but she looked more tired than the last time Tommy had seen her, some six months previous during a weapons deal near the greenway in Area 5.

"Tommy," she greeted, simply. Despite the early hour, she did not sound as if she had been wakened by Tommy's unexpected arrival.

He nodded in return. "Marlene. How are you?"

"Alive," she replied. She had come to a halt behind the counter and crossed her arms. With Boston's high summer oppressive even at night, she was clad in only jeans and a dark tank top, and was already sweating in the dusty, stagnant air of the mini mart. Yet despite the edge that always persisted in her manner, Marlene seemed to relax after a second, lifting her brows as if she had remembered something. "I was going to send one of my people to find you today, actually."

Tommy frowned. "Why?"

"Report from Baltimore came in yesterday. Alex included an update on your people there."

Pulse suddenly quickening, Tommy opened his mouth to reply, but Marlene waved a hand and gave him a tired smile. "They're fine, all of them. Annie's still gravedigging, and now that Percy's ten, Alex says both he and Jan have work assignments at the zone's cannery."

Briefly forgetting why he had come, Tommy allowed himself a smile, nodding. "That's…that's real good. Appreciate Alex sendin' that on."

Marlene nodded, though her smile quickly faded back to the weary grimness she wore with such ease. She let Tommy savor the news for a few seconds more, then shifted, drawing him back to the present. "But that's not why you're here," she prompted.

"No," Tommy said, shaking his head and clearing his throat. "I'm ready to join."

Unlike Warren, Marlene's reaction was not surprised. Her expression barely changed, though her eyes did flick across Tommy's face, briefly darting down to note the flecks of blood across the back of his hand and the smuggler's dirt that had caked into the elbows and knees of his clothing. After a slow breath, she finally spoke.

"Why?"

Tommy shook his head again. "It's just time."

Still barely moving, Marlene blinked once, then twice. "You lost someone," she said quietly. It was not a question.

Tommy paused, then nodded.

"Joel?"

"No," he said quickly, brows coming together. "He's…fine. He's fine."

She eyed him a second longer but only nodded, prying no further. "Okay then."

"So," Tommy continued, straightening as he glanced at Warren, then back to Marlene. "What do you need from me?"

"Two things," she answered, instantly to business. "First, we check your background, figure out who you are."

"So we know if you got any skeletons in the closet," Warren smirked.

Marlene nodded. "Or at least so we know what they are if you do. Not a problem with you."

"Why not?" Tommy asked, frowning.

"Because we already know what your skeletons are. We did plenty of digging after the news first came out of Baltimore. And we've kept tabs on you since then." Tommy lifted a brow, but Marlene ignored him. "I'm not concerned."

When Tommy glanced at Warren again, the other Firefly only shrugged, as if it were hardly surprising. "Okay," Tommy said slowly. "So what's second then?"

Marlene pursed her lips and Tommy noticed her eyes briefly darted away from his face, as if suddenly cautious. Lowering her voice, she spoke quietly. "An interview."

Eyes narrowing at her sudden wariness, Tommy held his hands open, palm upward, to indicate his cooperation. "Ask away."

"I don't ask the questions."

"What? Who then?"

Yet before Marlene had a chance to answer, the bell above the store's entrance suddenly jangled. Tommy tensed, reaching for his flashlight as his head snapped about, eyes going to the door. A thin shaft of gray dawn light had stabbed into the shop, forcing Tommy to blink at the abrupt brightness as the door swung inwards a foot and admitted a single person. Behind him, Tommy heard both Marlene's and Warren's breathing quicken as something metallic rattled, like a knife being loosened from a belt.

The door swung shut with another jangle of the bell and, for a second, nobody moved. Tommy was still blinking against the unexpected light and whoever had entered the shop seemed to have paused to adjust to the murky darkness within.

"Tommy?"

"Joel?"

"Jesus Christ."

Tommy released a breath. The tension in the air quickly dissipated, but Tommy found himself warily watching his brother as Joel started towards the rear of the shop, boots scraping across the floorboards. For a horrible second, a cartoonish image flashed through Tommy's mind, of Joel dragging him out of the store by the ear.

"Come to join too?" Marlene muttered. She hardly sounded serious, but she was not smiling. If Tommy had to guess from her tone, she was as unsettled by Joel's arrival as Tommy was.

"No," Joel almost snorted, pulling a face.

Marlene glanced at Tommy, then back to Joel. "To drag him out of here then?"

"No."

"Then why are you here?"

"I just am," Joel grunted.

He came to a halt beside the counter, but Tommy only stepped back a pace, eyeing his brother with the same look of suspicion that the two Fireflies wore.

"What're you doin', Joel?" Tommy muttered, lips parting.

"Makin' sure you ain't gonna change your mind."

_Makin' sure you ain't gonna change your mind_. Joel had said the same words years ago, in another life, another world. Just before Tommy had joined his first labor union, in a state where union activity was more likely to get you fired than not. Joel had spent hours trying to talk Tommy out of it, but in the end, it was Joel who had driven Tommy to the office where he would pay his first union dues. Just in case, Joel had said. Just in case Tommy saw sense, even at the last minute.

Tommy shook his head, staring at his brother as if seeing him for the first time. "He's okay, Marlene. He's…not gonna do anythin'."

The Firefly continued watching Joel, her eyes narrow and expression unreadable. She still stood with her arms crossed, as if daring him to make the first move.

"Hey," Tommy grunted, more sharply now. "He's fine. Now who's askin' me these questions?"

Marlene shifted. Her attention returned to Tommy, but she continued flicking glances in Joel's direction. "You need to meet Bas," she said finally, her lips pressing together.

"Bas?"

"Bastille."

"Who's Bastille?" Joel muttered.

Marlene shot him a glare, as if irritated that she had to deal with him.

"He's the leader of the Fireflies."

* * *

><p>A generator sputtered, guttered, then roared to life.<p>

As the smell of gasoline rolled over Tommy, he felt someone tug at the knot behind his head, loosening the blindfold over his eyes until the dirty cloth fell away. He blinked, but wherever they were was nearly as dark as being blindfolded and he could see only vague shapes around him.

Suddenly a bare lightbulb in a protective cage flared to life with a buzz and the thick metal grate on which Tommy was standing lurched beneath his feet, beginning to descend.

"Jesus," Joel muttered beside Tommy, likewise blinking as his blindfold was removed. "You people use smuggler's tunnels?"

"No," Marlene answered. She was behind the two brothers, her thumb pressed to a panel with a flashing green light, apparently the switchboard to operate the makeshift elevator. "We have our own tunnels."

Joel grunted.

"So what's the deal anyway?" Tommy said, shouting over the growl of the generator. "I thought _you_ were in charge of the Fireflies."

She shook her head. "I command Boston's ground forces, Richmond's before that. Bastille leads the Fireflies as a whole. He founded our organization with two others, right here in Boston. He's been here since the start."

"What happened to the other two?"

"Founders? They died."

"That's comforting," Joel muttered. Tommy shot him a glare.

The elevator screeched to a halt and the metal grate beneath Tommy thumped against the ground.

"Come on," Marlene said, stepping off.

The bottom of the elevator shaft was clearly underground. Walls made of dirt and wooden posts formed a tunnel just tall enough for a grown man to stand in, but Tommy glimpsed severed electrical lines and broken sewage pipes, as if they were no more than a story or two below street level. A trail of flickering lightbulbs reached down the tunnel and around a corner, disappearing from sight.

"What kinda name is 'Bastille' anyway?" Joel grumbled, following Marlene as she led the way down the tunnel. "He foreign?"

"No. Boston Irish, born and bred. It's a codename. He's the most wanted man in the zone."

"That nobody's heard of."

Tommy shot his brother another glare, but Joel tipped his head to the side with a pointed look, as if he could hardly believe he had allowed himself to be dragged to this place.

"The Feds know him," Marlene replied tersely. "Or know _of_ him. He was one of Boston's first refugees, which means they have his name and photo on file. They just don't know _which_ name and photo is his."

"And you wanna keep it that way," Tommy said, before Joel could make some further snarky comment.

"Yes."

They rounded a corner and the tunnel widened into an open area set with tables and chairs, oil lanterns hanging from the ceiling. Several Fireflies were seated at one of the tables, each with a rifle or machete across their lap. They seemed to have no uniform, not even the black armbands that Joel and Tommy had found on the bodies of the first Fireflies they had encountered, years ago outside Charlotte, North Carolina. These were just a ragtag group of fighters in jeans and light jackets, distinguishable from regular citizens only by the weaponry they carried. And by the withering edge in their expressions, an understated sort of determination that crowded out the dull sheen of boredom and hopelessness that filled the eyes of most zone residents.

"Take them to the boiler room," Marlene ordered, gesturing several of her people towards Tommy and Joel. "Where's Bas?"

"CenCom," one of the other Fireflies answered.

Nodding, Marlene turned away without a word to the brothers and ducked into a second tunnel that opened off of the area they stood in. The others were standing, several following Marlene, while those who remained began shepherding Tommy and Joel towards a door-like opening in the far wall.

As Tommy stepped through it, he felt the ground grow more solid underfoot and his boots scraped, as if he were standing on cement. One of the Fireflies pushed past them and disappeared behind a bulky shape in the darkness. A second later, two bulbs flickered to life, illuminating the hulking barrels of a line of commercial boilers, white paint peeling as rust slowly corroded their surfaces.

"Have a seat," one of their hosts offered, waving them towards a dusty dining table that had been dragged into one corner.

As the Fireflies filed out of the boiler room, Joel fixed Tommy with a long stare.

"Shut up," Tommy muttered, crossing his arms.

Several minutes passed. They could hear the Fireflies in the open area outside, making small talk as if this visit were part of a practiced routine. Joel slowly paced the small room and Tommy stood with his back against a wall, head down, but neither brother took a seat at the table.

A brief commotion outside brought Tommy's head up and he glanced towards the doorway just as Marlene appeared. She locked eyes with him for a second before glancing away, entering the room but stepping to the side, into the shadow of one of the rusting boilers.

A man followed her. He was Tommy's height and build, but with a square white beard and a crown of white hair that jutted out from beneath a dirty ball cap. Wrinkles like teardrops pulled at the skin beneath his eyes, framing a face that Tommy suspected had not smiled in a very long time. The man wore a checkered shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a ragged vest, looking for all the world like some relic from the heyday of outlaw country music.

"Sit," the man said, gesturing them towards the table.

Tommy glanced at Joel, then slowly pulled out a chair and took a seat. A second later, Joel rolled his eyes and followed suit.

"You look pissed to be here," the white-haired man said, pointing towards Joel. His eyes flicked to Tommy. "So you must be Tommy."

Tommy only nodded.

"I'm Bastille."

Neither brother said a word. The Firefly leader's voice was a grating rumble, like a man who had either smoked his entire life or gone through throat cancer, or both. Yet his tone was commanding, at once as terse and abrupt as Marlene's, but laced with far less patience.

Bastille moved away from the doorway and Tommy noticed that he walked with a heavy limp on his right side. Indeed, as the old man dragged out a chair and seated himself, he slid his arm out from the cuff of a forearm crutch and propped the stick against the wall beside him.

He surveyed the two brothers, eyes passing between them as if measuring them up for size. Yet when he finally leaned back in his chair and thrust his chin out, it was to Joel that he looked.

"Why don't you want him joining?" he rumbled, jabbing a finger towards Tommy.

Joel's eyes narrowed and his jaw abruptly tightened. "What the hell are you askin' me questions for? This is supposed to be _his_ deal."

"And you're here, so you're _part_ of his deal. Now why?"

"Why should I answer?"

"Because you want to."

"For god's sake," Joel snorted with annoyance.

"Why don't you want him joining?"

Bastille spoke very quickly, almost cutting Joel off with the speed with which he would say something as soon as Joel had finished speaking. Growing visibly impatient, Joel pushed back from the table. He remained seated, but he glared at Marlene and the Firefly leader.

"Fine," Joel growled. "Listen, mister, I don't mean to offend you, but your little militia here? You ain't exactly got a stunning track record. Pissed off the Feds, made a nice little name for yourself. Maybe you killed a coupla nobodies. But in the end, you're still livin' in tunnels and gettin' shot. Ain't exactly a dream job for my brother."

"Of course," Bastille returned curtly, as if irritated. Joel's eyes narrowed again, but the old man turned to Tommy before Joel could continue. "Why is he wrong?"

"What?" Tommy said, surprised Bastille had turned to him so quickly.

The Firefly abruptly rose from the table, his chair scraping as he grabbed his crutch. "Your brother," he grunted, turning his back, "says all we do is live in tunnels and die. Why is he wrong?"

Tommy shot Joel a sidelong glance, but the unpleasant look that his brother returned made Tommy slowly grind his teeth. He would find no support there. "Because he doesn't see the big picture," Tommy finally said.

"What big picture?"

"You do it for a reason."

"What reason?"

"To fight."

"Fight for what?"

Tommy drifted off, mouth open, thrown by the speed with which the old man peppered him with questions. Even with his back turned, Bastille seemed to command the room. Tommy licked his lips and glanced at Joel again, searching for a word that would not earn another sneer from his brother.

"For…"

Yet when Tommy drifted off again, Bastille grimaced with impatience and began to limp towards the door as if the conversation were over.

"_Hope_."

It was Marlene who spoke, nearly invisible where she stood with crossed arms, leaning against the side of a rusting boiler. She shot the Firefly leader a pointed look. "Give him a goddamn chance, Bas. He's not a zoner."

Bastille had paused in the doorway. He turned now, eyes flicking to Marlene, then back to Tommy. Impatience seemed to pinch the lines of his face, but he gave a sharp sigh, briefly relenting.

"You're an outsider, correct?" he said tersely. At Tommy's nod, he leaned forward on his crutch. "Zoners, people who've been behind these walls since the start, they come looking for hope. They crave it. They think they can't live with it. But people like you, you're the real problem. You've got to be convinced it still exists."

Joel pulled a face and crossed his arms, staring at Tommy as if he could hardly believe his little brother was willing to listen to this crap. A flash of irritation crept up Tommy's spine, causing him to clench his teeth and look away.

"And you _know_ it does," Bastille continued, voice scraping as he suddenly thumped his crutch angrily against the cement floor. "Otherwise you wouldn't be here. But you've convinced yourself that words like hope, freedom, sacrifice – that they've got no place here anymore. You're embarrassed by them, because people like your brother have convinced you you should be."

Joel's chair flew backwards and struck the wall behind him as he abruptly stood. "Goddamnit, Tommy—"

In the shadows, Marlene was instantly in motion, pulling a pistol from her rear waistband and pointing it at Joel as if afraid he meant to do harm to Bastille. Joel stilled, but only long enough to glance at the ceiling and shake his head.

"Put it away, Marlene," Joel muttered. "I ain't gonna hurt your old man." When she did not move, Joel only ignored her. "Tommy, listen to them. You think _talkin'_ about changin' things just magically makes it happen? You join up with this and all you're gettin' is empty promises and somebody tellin' you what to do, same as you get from the military."

"Joel, fuckin' stop!" Tommy snapped suddenly. He slammed his fist down so hard that the table shook. "Marlene, put the goddamn gun down."

The light from the room's two bare bulbs glinted off the barrel of the silver pistol Marlene held, and it glimmered in her eyes as she glanced towards Bastille. At his nod, she slowly lowered her arm.

"I told you I ain't changin' my mind," Tommy said, glaring back at his brother. He gestured towards Bastille. "He's right, Joel. I'm done. This is what I'm doin'. And I ain't askin' anything from you except to let me do it."

The anger slowly faded from Joel's expression, but it was replaced by something worse. Disappointment. It worked its way into the manner that Joel's lips pressed together and his gaze dropped, into the gentle release of the tension in his shoulders, and into the way he shook his head, allowing a sharp sigh to escape him.

"It's a mistake," he muttered, still shaking his head as he looked up. Without a word, he stooped and picked up his fallen chair, shoving back under the table. He did not look towards Tommy as he came around the table and started towards the door.

"I'll see myself out."

Bastille said nothing. He stepped to the side and permitted Joel to push past him, but once Joel was through the doorway, the old man turned to Marlene. "Follow him out," he rumbled. "Make sure he's got the blindfold on and take him back where you found him."

She acknowledged the command by silently pocketing her pistol again. Shooting a parting glance at Tommy, she too disappeared through the door.

Tommy listened to their footsteps fade down the tunnel towards the elevator, and when he could hear them no more, his eyes flickered to Bastille. For once, the Firefly leader's persistent irritation appeared to have vanished.

"Sure you aren't following him out?" he quietly asked.

In the light of the two buzzing bulbs, Tommy gently rolled his arm to the side, glancing at the flecks of blood still dried across the back of his hand. A second later, he nodded.

"Yes."

* * *

><p>Tommy rolled the old denim jacket into a ball and pushed it towards the bottom of his backpack, using it to cushion a small water filter and collapsible cook stove. He packed quickly, with his bag set atop the square kitchen table of the apartment he shared with Joel. Matches and candles, packets of oatmeal, an old compass, and everything else he had hidden away since they had arrived in Boston, leaving the open road behind. He could feel it again, the road, yawning before him like a great, broken chasm. Yet rather than the fear he had felt before, it was a nervous sort of excitement that tingled through his limbs now.<p>

Something tumbled off the table as he grabbed a rolled up shirt, bouncing to the ground at Tommy's feet. He stooped and picked it up, suddenly smiling as he realized what it was. A black rubber wristband, smudged with dirt in places, but with peeling white writing that read _JUST DO IT_. He flipped it over, shaking his head at the Nike Swoosh logo on the other side.

Just do it. Percy's parting gift.

Sighing, Tommy slipped it over his hand and pulled it back onto his wrist. As he was standing, the apartment door suddenly opened.

Joel stopped, lips parting in brief surprise as he stood in the doorway. Then his expression darkened and he stepped into the apartment without a word. He pushed past Tommy towards the bedroom, eyes flicking to the kitchen table with Tommy's half-packed bag.

"I'm leavin'," Tommy called out as his brother disappeared into the second room. "Dunno for how long."

He could hear Joel rustling around in the bedroom, shifting things, boots scraping across the floorboards.

"They're sendin' some folks out west," Tommy continued, despite the lack of response. "Settin' up a coupla bases where they won't get such pressure from the Feds." He paused, still listening for a response. "Figure I'm a good fit, havin' been on the outside and all."

"Yeah," was Joel's eventual response, echoing slightly in the second room.

Tommy cleared his throat. "You seen the others yet?"

"Mmhm."

"And?"

Joel appeared in the bedroom doorway, a pistol with the magazine popped out in his hands. "Saw Rodger and Troy," he muttered as he set the magazine on the kitchen counter and began stripping the pistol down. "Troy's busy gettin' Rodger as drunk as he can without killing him. Idiot threatened to try and storm FEDRA's central garrison otherwise."

"And Tess?"

"Remindin' the packages we brought in this mornin' that the interruption in their arrival doesn't change our deal." He seemed to deliberately avoid looking up at Tommy, instead meticulously focusing on the pieces of the gun he was taking apart, rubbing gunpowder off with the corner of his shirt, testing the moving parts. It was Jack Breslen's old pistol.

Tommy eyed his brother. Joel seemed better whenever he had something to do, easier to talk to if he could be preoccupied with something else. "So like I said," Tommy muttered. "I could be gone awhile."

"If you don't die."

"Yeah," Tommy nodded. "There's that."

Even as he began reassembling the pistol, Joel did not look up, nor did he respond again. Taking a slow breath, Tommy shook his head and crossed the room, ducking past his brother and into the bedroom. It was as if that morning's meeting with the Fireflies had never happened, or at least, as if Joel had never stormed out of it. There was no anger in Joel's manner, no annoyance or irritation or even disappointment anymore. If he felt anything at all, it was not evidenced by his toneless speech or empty expression.

Tommy stooped and grabbed a pair of gloves from the battered sofa that served as their second bed, then began rummaging through the drawers of an old bureau. He was pulling out one of the two rolls of electrical tape they kept there when he heard movement in the kitchen, as if Joel were pushing away from the kitchen counter. A second later, the front door opened.

"Lock up when you leave," Joel called out. Boots scraped again, then the door clicked shut.

Tommy's lips parted at the abruptness of his brother's departure. He slowly emerged from the bedroom to find the kitchen empty, as expected. He nodded to himself, frowning as understanding sank in. So that was going to be the way of it.

Fine.

Tommy threw the gloves and tape to the table with more force than he needed to, realizing with a start that he could not be gone from this place fast enough. He grabbed a shirt and rolled the tape and gloves into it, yanked open his bag, and then stopped, suddenly letting out a quick breath.

Nestled atop his old denim jacket was Breslen's pistol and a plastic bag with a handful of extra cartridges.

* * *

><p><strong>As always, thank you for reading and reviewing! And don't panic! Tommy hasn't said The Words, so no, this is NOT the Big Estrangement. Just another milestone in our brothers' journey.<strong>

**Tune in next time as Joel and Tommy discover what it is like to be apart for the first time since the outbreak began. Without each other to act as anchors any longer, will they change for better or worse?**


	25. Chapter 25 - Unfettered

Chapter 25

_May 8, 2021, Afternoon_

"Tacos."

"Seriously? Of all of the food you miss most, you pick tacos?"

"You haven't _had_ real tacos."

"Chocolate!"

"Dude, you can still find chocolate."

"Yeah, all dried out and nasty shit. Ain't the same, is it?"

"You were so clearly a tween before all this."

Laughter rolled around the group at the look of longing on Joe's face, his eyes glassy and mouth hanging open with hungry memory. He was the youngest among them, barely twenty, with a mop of brown hair and a tall, slender body he had only just begun to grow into.

"Hey, wait, are we saying chocolate's just for kids?" Andrea said abruptly, lifting a brow.

"Hell no," Tommy snorted, squinting as he eyed the piece of wood he was working on and began marking out lengths with the stub of a pencil. "We adults get to miss that too." He paused suddenly, straightening. "Jesus, that makes me sound old."

Without missing a beat, Joe nodded sadly. "You _are_ old, Tommy."

"Thirty-three is not old, kid."

"Practically ancient."

The four of them broke out laughing again, even as Joe ducked the empty water-bottle that Max chucked in his direction. Tommy grinned, shaking his head as he returned his attention to the wood he was working on. The other three were all similarly preoccupied – cutting wood, sanding it, staining it. Some of it was relatively unadulterated, old stacks of lumber they had found in the university's facilities maintenance building, but most of it was furniture that had been requisitioned from musty classrooms and offices, broken up and given new life as part of the barricade they were slowly patching together across the front of the science building.

Tall rolls of razor wire circled the building, pulled down from the long-deserted military barricades that had once fenced in the emergency triage unit set up in the plaza that fronted the science building. The triage had lain forgotten for years, now only a jumble of dirty white tents and empty cots. As for the science building, it loomed over them like a great dusty mirror, unexpectedly beautiful with its unbroken windows and pristine face. Tommy had grown too accustomed to buildings with shattered glass and charred, gutted interiors. It seemed almost a shame to mar this one with the ugliness of razor wire and a patchwork wall.

"Okay, I've got one," Andrea said, bringing Tommy's attention up again. She had her long red hair back in a braid, but strands of it had pulled free to frame her round face and its easy smile. "Most inconvenient part of the apocalypse."

"Inconvenient?" Max repeated, his brows coming together.

"Yeah, most annoying."

With his greasy gray hair and beard, Max was the oldest among them, a fact that he frequently reminded them of with his over-dramatic sighs and eye-rolls, as if entertaining a flock of youngsters. Now, his leathery brown face screwed up as if concentrating, then slowly split into a knowing grin.

"Nail clipping."

Once, a revelation like that might have earned a round of awkward, TMI smiles. But now, there were instant roars of agreement.

"Christ, yes! You know how many nail clippers I've lost?"

"And then you gotta do it with a knife, and just, shit."

"And it catches on _everything_."

"Ripped a nail clean off once. _Fuck_."

Nodding knowingly at each other, the four of them took a few moments to collectively cringe at the small personal grooming deprivations that were so much more a daily reminder of the end of the world than the occasional, albeit heart-pounding, encounters with infected.

"Okay, okay, how's this," Joe said, holding up his hands and pausing for dramatic effect. "Puberty."

Tommy glanced at Max and Andrea, who both lifted brows with slightly disgusted expressions. "Seriously?" Tommy said dryly, looking back to Joe.

The young man's eyes widened and he nodded, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Seriously, man. You try going through puberty without acne cream and porn."

"You know," Max said sarcastically, "some of us went through puberty before the internet existed."

"Sucks, right?"

"Jesus Christ," Tommy chuckled, shaking his head again at the kid's antics as Andrea chucked an old rag at Joe's head. Max gave one of his heavy sighs and shook his head, eyes rolling skyward as he began cutting one of the wooden boards with a short handsaw.

It was good here. These were the same Fireflies that Tommy had left Boston with and the change in the general mood of their modest company had noticeably altered in the week since they had arrived at the University of Eastern Colorado. The quarantine zone had fostered a deep wariness, an edge that made even rebels like the Fireflies terse and suspicious, and while the open road seemed a relief from the cloistered confines of the zone, it brought the renewed threat of infected. That had struck Tommy as odd at first, how years of zone life had somehow made the unpredictability of infected and the open road more welcome than the brutality of military rule.

Yet here was unlike even the road. Easier. Lighter. There had been infected roaming parts of the campus when they had first arrived, and there were presumably more lingering in the buildings that dotted the grounds, but all in all, the university seemed a relative haven, well removed from the nearest town and largely untouched by looters. Their company was some thirty strong, hardened veterans of conflicts both within and outside quarantine zone walls. They had been friendly in the months spent trekking west, but always with that lingering edge. Now, most seemed almost relaxed.

"Hey whoa," Tommy said, snapping his fingers at Joe. "Joe, what'd I say before? You gotta sand the wood first, _then_ stain."

"I did sand it."

"What, like once? You gotta really clean it or else the stain won't stick. I ain't buildin' a whole new wall at the end of the summer 'cause this one got all dried out and useless."

Grimacing, Joe snatched up a wooden block with sandpaper wrapped around it and began scraping it across the surface of the broken table leg he had been about to apply stain to.

Andrea smiled. "You like this, don't you?" she asked, glancing at Tommy.

"Yeah," he shrugged, nodding. "Guess I do."

"You used to be in construction, right?"

"Yeah. Houses mostly. Some office buildings, but mostly houses. My brother and I worked as barricaders too, at the first zone we ended up in."

"Barricaders?"

"People who built the walls," Max answered for him, at which Andrea nodded with recognition. "That was my first work assignment too, in Boston," Max continued. "Before the Feds took over wall maintenance anyway."

Tommy smiled and nodded again. That was another thing that had taken him some time to grow accustomed to. The Fireflies talked of life before the outbreak with relative ease, discussing old jobs, hobbies, likes and dislikes, as if they were all things which they would eventually recover. As if they were things that needed to be remembered, for a time when the world was put back to rights. You never discussed people, loved ones lost along the way, but everything else was fair game.

There was still a part of Tommy that twisted with wariness at such carefree reminiscing.

The growl of an engine caused the four of them to straighten with interest. Others around them were also suddenly restless with anticipation. The Fireflies who stood looking out beside the rolls of razor wire began waving at one another, readying rifles and lifting binoculars. Others emerged from within the science building, cautiously checking magazines and safety clips.

Squinting against the morning sun, Tommy shielded his eyes with one hand and retrieved his hunting rifle with the other.

A second later, a black Jeep Cherokee appeared, coming from the direction of central campus.

"It's Marlene," Tommy said.

The Jeep kicked up dust and gravel as it weaved around triage tents, the sun glinting dully off its scratched and battered sides. By the time it pulled up to the front of their emerging barricade, the Fireflies assembled had all lowered their weapons and were waving and grinning with relief to see their leader's return. Smiling wearily, Marlene waved as she stepped out from the passenger side of the vehicle, the car door screeching as if close to coming off its hinges. Other Fireflies likewise piled out, five in all, all wearing the few flak jackets their company possessed.

"We got them!" Marlene called out to the on-lookers, suddenly holding up two small black radios that she pulled from the Jeep. A cheer went up from the Fireflies at the science building.

Marlene waved them to silence again. "There's two more in the back, all battery operated. So we're looking at three look-outs. Andrea, Aaron, and Harry are up first. Andrea, you've got the corner balcony by the auto shop. Aaron, you're on top of Mueller Residence Hall. The building hasn't been cleared yet, so use the outside fire escape. And Harry, set up on either the management or economics building, whichever you can find roof access to. You start in ten minutes, so wrap up whatever you're working on. For the rest of you, Warren's putting together a shift schedule tonight. Central radio," she held up one of the radios again, "stays with whoever's in charge of the barricade guards. Questions?"

When there were none, she gave a curt nod. "Okay then. Good job, people. Back to work."

Those gathered began to disperse, some returning into the science building, others like Tommy and his crew turning their attention back to the ongoing work on the wall. Yet as Tommy rubbed his hands together to brush off a layer of wood dust, he heard Marlene call out behind him again.

"Tommy!"

He turned, brows lifting.

She had mounted the stairs heading into the science building, but she waved now for him to follow. "Mind if I have a minute?"

"Yeah, course," he called back, nodding. Glancing back at his three comrades, he pointed at Joe and shot the young man a long stare. "Sand first, then stain."

"Yes, boss," Joe muttered as he hunched back over his work.

Wiping his hands on his jeans, Tommy grabbed his rifle again and lightly jogged after Marlene.

Through two sets of double doors, the main atrium of the building was surprisingly bright. Light from the building's glass face streamed down onto gray tiles littered with dead leaves and muddy footprints. A long reception desk stretched along the wall to the left, and to the right, a staircase led to the upper levels of the building. The atrium had once been dotted with tables and chairs and cloth sofas in outdated orange and green colors, but most of the furniture had now been pushed into corners or gathered together into makeshift workstations. Fireflies were as busy in here as they were outside, some inventorying the building's contents, others at tables with dusty science equipment and machines spread out before them.

"Tommy," Marlene nodded once had caught up to her. She waved for him to follow and led the way to the end of the atrium, where she turned left into a wide corridor that opened into a set labs on the right and a row of classrooms on the left. Ducking into the nearest classroom, she waited for Tommy to follow, then closed the door behind him.

Jumbled rows of desks spread away from the door in unsteady lines, all pointing towards a whiteboard and old projector covered in dust and cobwebs. In the corner nearest the door, a crumpled white sheet streaked with dried blood had been balled up and tossed to the ground. Sighing tiredly, Marlene swung a small pack of her shoulder and tossed it onto one of the desks, then perched herself on the edge of another.

"How's the barricade coming?" she said, rubbing her eyes.

"Good," Tommy replied, nodding with a smile. "Yeah, goin' pretty good. Another week or so and we should have you a pretty solid barricade set up." He propped his rifle against the wall and likewise took a seat atop one of the desks.

Marlene laced her fingers together and leaned forward on one knee, nodding. "Good. I don't want any more surprises."

Both of their eyes instinctively wandered towards the balled bloody sheet in the corner of the room, which had been used to cover the body of Eric Griggs, leader of Foxtrot Squad. He had been killed during an unexpected attack by several Runners the day previous. Within an hour of his burial, Marlene and her small team had departed with the sole mission of finding radios so they could post sentries farther out from the science building.

"Will it hold Runners?" Marlene continued.

"If it's a handful or less, yeah. We get a pack though, I can't say for sure."

Her lips pursed in thought.

"If we had explosives," Tommy said, straightening and clearing his throat, "we could set 'em up at choke points. Trigger 'em if we get word from one of our look-outs that a pack's headed our way. Dunno if it'd finish a pack off, but it'd certainly take a chunk out of it before it got here."

The Firefly leader nodded. "That's a good idea. I'll see what we can do."

She drifted into silence again, eyes unfocused as she continued to lean on one knee. Tommy let the silence soak for a while, but he eventually shifted, tipping his head back as he eyed Marlene.

"There somethin' on your mind, Marlene?"

She straightened as if having forgotten Tommy was with her, then gave one of her rare smiles, a ghost of an expression that was gone as quickly as it had come. She abruptly stood and waved for Tommy to follow again. "Come on," she said curtly.

Opening the classroom door, she stepped back out into the corridor and crossed to another open door opposite. They entered a wide science lab bathed in gray light and strewn with dusty science equipment. Beakers and flasks, notebooks, computers, petri dishes, and Bunsen burners. All perfectly undisturbed, as if they had not been touched since the day the university had been abandoned.

"This place is going to be remembered one day," Marlene said as she began slowly moving through the lab, her back to Tommy. "When they start writing history books again, this place will be the first thing they write about."

Tommy's brows drew together and he could not help pressing his lips together with slight skepticism. "'Cause of a vaccine?"

"Yes." She turned abruptly to look back at him. "The Feds have stopped looking for a vaccine, Tommy. A handful of zones still operate labs, that's it. Maybe someone else out there is still looking, but…" She shook her head. "This is the future. We are. We have to be. The military keeps its grip on the zones because people believe there's no alternative. We have to show them there is."

"If we can find a vaccine."

"_When_ we find a vaccine," she said forcefully. "All the early trials, all the failed trials, they were brought on by desperation, at a time when we hardly knew anything about the infection. We have doctors and scientists at a base in Salt Lake City. With the equipment here, and the time to be thorough, and what we know about the infection now – how it evolves – they can do what the Feds have never been able to."

Tommy opened his mouth to reply, but only ended up giving a small smile as he lightly shook his head. As a commander, Marlene frequently came across as short and terse, and as a friend, her manner was usually weary and unreadable. But every so often, Tommy caught glimpses of the woman behind the voice on Boston's rebel radio – passionate, unshakeable, inspired, capable of exhorting the masses to action.

"People will remember this place," Marlene said, her expression softening. "What we do here, people are going to remember it, Tommy. This is where it will happen."

Tommy gave her a half-smile that he knew was less than convincing, then looked away.

"You don't believe it?" she asked.

"No, I just…"

"You've just still got Joel in your head."

Tommy glanced back at her, his smile slowly fading at the thought of Boston. Of his brother.

"I'm sorry," Marlene said quietly, shaking her head. "I didn't mean to disparage your brother, Tommy."

"No," he replied quickly. "No, you…you ain't wrong."

Marlene paused at the edge of one of the lab's black granite tabletops and absently flipped a page in a brittle spiral notebook. A second later, she looked back up at Tommy, her expression once more businesslike. "I want you to take Eric's place."

"What?" Tommy said, a brow lifting in surprise.

"I want you to take over command of Foxtrot Squad."

"Me? What about Max? I mean, he's more senior than I am."

"No." Marlene shook her head. "Max is a good soldier, but he's not a leader. He doesn't want to be." She tipped her head forward, eyeing Tommy as she took a slow breath. "We're here another week, Tommy. Then I'm leaving two squads here and taking the third with me to Salt Lake City. We've got people and equipment we need to move, and just over four hundred miles to cross each way. I need people I can rely on."

Tommy looked away, lips pressing together in thought. He absently ran a hand through his hair.

"Listen," Marlene continued. "You've played second fiddle for a long time, Tommy. But I wouldn't ask if I didn't think you were capable."

He glanced back at her, sensing again the woman behind that unflinching, unapologetically passionate voice he had listened to in Boston's broadcasts. He nodded once, then again, more strongly.

"Okay. Alright, I'm in."

* * *

><p><em>Fall 2021, Dawn<em>

The long shadows that stretched down across the docks concealed much of the place in darkness, and even the rusty orange light of dawn had a way of tricking the eye into melting colors together, making it difficult to distinguish the shapes that moved about below. Still, if Joel squinted, he could make out enough of each silhouette to determine which ones were familiar. One stocky figure, hair cropped short beneath a backwards ball cap, was more than easy to recognize.

Joel barely moved as he watched the activity below, half-concealed behind the corner of a rusting metal warehouse that overlooked the lower dock area. He broke off pieces from a very stale granola bar as he watched, ignoring the wooden aftertaste of dry granola and chocolate as he chewed without ceremony. High above, seagulls idly circled the dock, but Joel only absently lifted his gaze to watch them. They would not give away his position, not even for the prospect of a bite of granola. They had learned quickly that coming too close to the docks these days made them fair game for the zone's many hungry residents.

He finished the granola bar and pocketed the empty wrapper before lightly crossing his arms and leaning against the side of the warehouse. One of the figures below slapped another across the back and Joel heard the distant echo of laughter. He pressed his lips together. Without thinking, his eyes flicked down to his wrist, briefly glancing at the spider web cracks that split across the wide glass face of his watch.

Blinking, he looked away again. At least these days he was spared his brother's knowing, silent stare every time he so much as glanced at his wrist.

Tommy.

He cleared his throat quietly, pushing the thought from his mind as he focused again on the men below. Jesus Christ, what the hell was taking Tess so long?

He knew the sound of her light gait. When the scuff of boots gently kicked gravel behind him, he turned calmly, spotting her as she stepped out from an open doorway of the warehouse against which Joel had been leaning. Fresh blood stained the sleeves of her jacket, though she was not nursing any fresh wounds.

"Well?" she asked.

"He's down there alright," he muttered, jerking his head behind him to indicate the lower dock below. "Got here about a half hour ago. He just headed upstairs, to the second floor office of that warehouse, I reckon."

"How many with him?"

"Seven or eight. That I can see from here, at least."

Tess joined him, likewise pressing close against the shadow of the warehouse as she peered around the corner to survey the area beneath them. She nodded with apparent satisfaction.

"How's Troy doin'?" Joel asked, once Tess had stepped back behind the corner where she would not be seen from below.

She shook her head. "The ear's torn clean off."

"Christ," Joel sighed, grimacing.

"But he'll live. If he's not infected anyway. Just have to wait and see."

Joel shook his head and let his jaw clench with frustration. "Where's he at now?"

"North tunnel apartment. Rodger's with him."

"Rodger? Really?" Joel said doubtfully.

Tess pressed her lips together. "He's sober enough to watch a locked door."

"Sober enough to deal with Troy if he turns?"

"No," she said, more sharply now. "So let's get a move on and make this quick. Just focus."

"Yes, ma'am," he replied, just as terse.

"How about we get the bastard responsible?"

A night without sleep and the uncertainty of Troy's future had made the both of them short with each other, but at Tess's smirking call to arms, Joel couldn't help but give a sharp, forceful nod of agreement. "Lead on, boss."

Requiring no further prompting, Tess pushed away from the warehouse and led the way down a set of cement steps that connected the upper dock to the lower dock. She did not attempt to hide her approach or keep to the shadows, but instead walked in full view of the dock workers below, as if she belonged there. As the two of them descended the stairs, curious faces, some suspicious, turned to watch their approach.

"You sure about your guy?" Joel muttered, warily eyeing their onlookers.

"I'm sure," was Tess's only reply.

They reached the bottom of the stairway and started towards the hulking two-story warehouse that hugged the edge of the dock. Green paint peeled away from its sides.

As they neared the warehouse, a man appeared in the large opening that had once allowed admittance for vehicles and containers. He was probably Joel's age, with sunken cheekbones and a brown goatee that faded to a stringy mess of hairs at his jowls, as if he could not grow a full beard. His long hair was pulled back in a greasy tail, and in his right ear, a dull metal stud glinted in the dawn light.

"Tess," the man greeted. His entire manner, even his tone, seemed to swagger.

"This is him?" Joel snorted, shooting Tess a look. He glanced back at the man. "Weren't you just some dock lackey like, a week ago?"

The man smirked. "Movin' up in the world."

"Clearly. What's your name again?"

"Robert," Tess answered for the man, cutting off any further interrogation. Joel rolled his eyes, but kept silent. "He's Fernando's go-to man now," she explained.

Robert nodded, crossing his arms. "He's upstairs. I told him I'd handle things down here so he could go to work on the books for a while."

"Does he know we're alive?"

"No," Robert said, shaking his head. "I told him last night went off without a hitch."

"Good man," Tess nodded with a thin smile. She jerked her head deftly to indicate the dock workers still watching them from a distance. "What about them?"

"Nah," Robert said. "They hate Fernando, haven't been paid in weeks. And they think I've got their back. They won't put up a fight, once it's done."

Tess nodded again, then glanced at Joel. "Ready, Texas?"

Joel was still warily eyeing Robert. Tess always took more risks than Joel would have preferred. Calculated risks, but risks just the same. Lips pressing together in an unhappy line, his eyes flicked to Tess again and he gave a brief nod, muttering, "Yeah."

Robert stepped back through the warehouse opening, ushering them past him. Joel shot the petty arms dealer a parting glance, then followed Tess as she mounted a set of metal stairs that led up to a partial second floor above the main warehouse floor.

An office with frosted windows was situated in one corner. Its metal door had been ripped from its hinges and propped up against a nearby wall, allowing the flicker of oil lamps to spill out through the opening. Now Tess and Joel did indeed attempt to conceal their approach, keeping close to the wall, where they could not be seen by someone within the office. Joel could heard the scuff of boots through the open doorway, like someone pacing.

Turning back to look at Joel, Tess held a finger to her lips as she slowly pulled a revolver from her jacket. Likewise, Joel reached behind him and tugged free the pistol he habitually kept tucked into his back waistband.

They were feet from the door when Tess held up three fingers, then two, then one.

All at once, both Tess and Joel sprang up and into the dirty little office. There was only one man waiting for them, his back turned to the door. As they suddenly entered the cramped space, the man spun about and gave a cry of surprise, lunging abruptly for the front drawer of a desk at the center of the office.

Joel caught the man's extended wrist and wrenched it up and away from the desk. Using the brunt of his weight, Joel forced the man to stumble back until his back slammed against a row of filing cabinets behind him.

"Hey, Fernando," Tess said lightly, as if greeting an old friend.

Fernando was stocky, solidly built, but he was shorter than Joel and at a distinct disadvantage pinned as he was against a filing cabinet, a sharp corner digging into his back.

"Tess," he said nervously, attempting a smile as he quickly ceased his struggling. "Joel. Uh, what's up, guys?" He was Hispanic, with short black hair and brown, pockmarked cheeks. Somewhere in the ruckus, the ball cap he had been wearing had been knocked to the floor, and already a thin sheen of sweat had broken out along his hairline.

"Oh, I don't know," Tess shrugged. "Just the usual, I guess. Getting cornered by infected after our little deal went down. You know."

"W-What?" Fernando stuttered, visibly swallowing. "I was…uh, I was told it went off without a hitch."

"Oh, you mean the whole us being dead part? Yeah, that…that didn't work out so well as you may have been led to believe."  
>"What!" The arms dealer's eyes widened and he started shaking his head vigorously. "No way, no way I wanted you two dead. You serious? Come on, really? Me?"<p>

"Yeah. You, Fernando."

He continued shaking his head. "But come on, infected? That's just bad luck, I swear. Nobody _controls_ infected."

"Actually," Tess replied lightly, "planning the exchange next to a nest of Clickers, and then setting off firecrackers as soon as your men have what they want – that would about do it. _Did_, in fact, do it."

She flicked her finger and Joel grabbed Fernando by the front of his shirt and yanked him away from the filing cabinet. He stumbled forward as Joel spun him around and shoved him towards the desk at the center of the office. Just as quickly, Joel pulled him roughly backwards into the metal chair beside the desk, causing Fernando's legs to buckle beneath him. He had barely been seated a second before Joel grabbed him by the back of the head and, with a cry of surprise from Fernando, slammed his face forward onto the desk. Blood suddenly smeared the dull metal desk top.

_That's fuckin' torture, Joel._

Joel released Fernando and stepped back, balling his fists. Tess did not appear to notice.

Instead, she leaned forward, staring down at their victim. A ribbon of split skin circled Fernando's broken nose and he was groaning, mouth hanging open.

"Where's the cards I paid your men before they set off the firecrackers?" she said calmly.

"I don't know nothin' about what you're talkin' about, Tess," he murmured, voice now noticeably nasal.

"Twenty cards, Fernando. I want them back."

"I swear, Tess. I don't know. Why would I even try to kill you?"

Sighing, Tess glanced at Joel, then flicked her eyes towards Fernando again. "Because you're a greedy bastard."

Joel stepped in front of the arms dealer. For a second, Fernando simply stared upwards with wide eyes, but when Joel pulled a knife from an inside coat pocket and flipped it open, Fernando's mouth suddenly dropped open and he sprang forward as if to stand.

With one hand, Joel shoved Fernando back into the chair, and with the other, he swiftly plunged the three-inch blade into the top of Fernando's left thigh.

"_Ahhhhhhgghh!"_

Fernando's scream split through the office for several long seconds before it finally faded to a drawn-out wail. He leaned forward over his bleeding leg, fingers curling around the blade embedded there, though never quite touching it, as if he feared what Joel would do if he attempted to pull it free. After a while, he clamped his mouth shut, but continued to breathe hard and sharp through his nose, bitter groans guttering at the back of his throat.

"Mm, good to have you around, Joel," Tess nodded, impressed. She returned her attention to Fernando. "Now, your little shenanigans this morning? Cost one of my people an ear, ripped clean off by a Clicker. Might even cost him his life, if he's infected. I guess we'll just see. So I want my cards back. Only fair."

The dealer continued to pant, fingers curling to fists that he pressed into the sides of his bleeding leg, as if that lessened the pain.

_Someone else'll come along._

…_We shoulda helped them._

Jaw suddenly clenching, Joel blinked hard and abruptly twisted the knife.

Fernando's howling redoubled and he jerked violently forward again, shaking as he huffed out ragged breaths and screwed his eyes up against the tears now trailing down across his pockmarked cheeks.

"_My cards_, Fernando," Tess said sharply, patience waning.

"In the drawer," he mumbled, voice shaking. "In the drawer."

Tess grabbed the handle of the desk's middle drawer and jerked it open. Old notebooks and stubs of pencils rolled around within, but on top was a stack of ration cards bound together with a rubber band, and beside them, a small black revolver.

"Oh tut tut," she cooed, holding up the revolver as she pocketed the cards. "Is this what you were reaching for before, said the man who knows nothing?"

Fernando just stared at her, lips quivering, eyes welled up.

Nodding, Tess sighed. "Yeah. Well, that's a shame." Still holding the revolver, she stepped forward and swung hard, cracking the gun across the side of Fernando's head hard enough to knock him sideways to the ground. He spilled out of the chair, arms and bloody leg askew, but did not move after.

"You're not gonna kill him?" Joel said, lifting a brow but otherwise unfazed as he stooped and jerked his knife out of the unconscious dealer's leg.

"Nope," Tess replied matter-of-factly. "Somebody else gets to do that. Come on."

Leaving Fernando's prone form alone in the office, the two of them quickly descended the stairs back to the warehouse's main floor. Robert was waiting for them, hands in his pockets, anxiously shifting from one foot to the other.

"Well?" he said as he caught sight of them, expression eager. "Is he dead?"

"Now why would I kill Fernando?" Tess smirked. "Just settling a business dispute. I've got no more beef with him or his crew."

Robert's mouth opened, his eyes narrowing.

"However," Tess continued casually, "he _is _lying up there, somewhat unconscious. I'd go and look in on him, if I were you. It'd be an awful time for someone…jockeying for a promotion to come across him, in his state."

Robert slowly licked his lips and began to nod.

Tess gave him one of her thin smiles and pushed past him, Joel following. Fernando's workmen eyed the two of them as they started back towards the upper dock, but at even a casual glance from either Tess or Joel, the gawkers quickly looked away, suddenly captivated by their work.

With Tess's back to him, Joel let his eyes flick down to his wrist. Flecks of blood had spattered across the cracked face of his watch and his lips pressed together as he rubbed a thumb across the crystal. But the red stains had sunk into the fine hairline cracks. Jaw tightening, he wiped his bloody hands on the hem of his shirt instead and twitched the cuff of his jacket forward, hiding the watch from view.

* * *

><p><strong>Thank you for reading and reviewing! I'm back into classes for the summer, so just a reminder that I do try to keep my profile updated with progress reports if it gets to be awhile since my last update. You can also Follow this story or me as an author to get an email as soon as a new update is posted.<strong>

**So! Tommy and Joel are learning what it's like to be apart for the first time in years. Tune in next time as each begins to realize being apart is not a cure-all for the memories that haunt them both.**

**Also, happy two-year anniversary to our favorite not-zombie apocalypse game! :)**

* * *

><p><strong>To a recent Guest review on Chpt 22, The Rat – I'd like you to know that I do indeed hear you and your concerns, which is why I did not choose to disapprove your review (the site allows writers to decide whether to allow guest reviews to be posted). While I understand your concerns, I respectfully decline to change the chapter. I do not generally retroactively change a chapter unless it is factually incorrect. I put a lot of thought into the words I choose and I would welcome the opportunity to explain at greater length my reasons for that language, if you were comfortable creating an account and PMing me. If not, I understand. In which case, I'll give a brief explanation here.<strong>

**1) Above all, I try to be realistic in my depictions. I do not aim to glory in violence or sex or politically incorrect language, but I do seek to acknowledge that it would likely exist in a world like this. 2) My perspective on Tess is that she protects herself by going out of her way to make herself appear stronger than other women, and that she accomplishes this is part by calling out perceived (even stereotypical) weaknesses of other women, as a way of contrasting herself. I am myself a woman, so please believe me when I say I do not use the term "slut" lightly. I chose that language not as my own commentary, but to reinforce that Tess is out to prove she only needs her wits and willingness to commit acts of brutality to survive. 3) As to my use of the word "psychopath", I'm sorry that it offended, but again, it was only ever intended as a reflection of Tess's need to prove herself – contrasting her own cool level-headedness against a stereotype that other characters would recognize, even if it is not a stereotype that is true. In my depiction (as the narrator) of physical or mental conditions, such as the deep PTSD that I think both Joel and Tommy suffer from, I've tried to be both sensitive in my portrayal and mindful of the fact that, for a variety of reasons, not all characters are likely to be as sensitive.**


	26. Chapter 26 - And Adrift

Chapter 26

_Spring 2022_

Glass cracked. Pain lanced across the back of Joel's head as he was thrust back a second time, head slamming into the window behind him. He grunted at the shock of the impact, but threw his hands out, grappling to find purchase on the fingers that dug into the skin at his throat. Yet the gray rain that pounded the ground made Joel's grip slick as he pried at his assailant's hold. The man's face was obscured by a gas mask, but he wore a camouflaged coat and pants and his fingers were gouging deep into Joel's neck.

Again, the man lunged forward, slamming Joel's head against the window behind him.

This time, glass broke.

Yelling with rage, Joel swung his knee up and into his attacker's stomach, ignoring the sudden cutting pain that had split across the back of his head. The man doubled over and Joel clawed at his gas mask, ripping it upward but not quite off, abruptly turning it into a blindfold and obscuring the man's vision. The fingers around Joel's throat instantly released.

Taking advantage of the reprieve, Joel lunged forward, barreling into his attacker and driving first an elbow to the man's gut and then a set of knuckles into the side of the man's face. The force of Joel's punch ripped the gas mask clean off and sent it flying into the brick wall on the opposite side of the alley.

For a second, Joel's attacker looked stunned as he stumbled back – an average man, average build, average face, nothing distinguishable at all. Then he held up his hands, stance suddenly tense as if ready to spring.

"Stop!" the man shouted. His voice was oddly muffled, as if he still had the mask on. "Stop right there!"

Lip curling, Joel dove forward again, grabbing the man by the shoulder and spinning him around to face the looming side of the alleyway. With one vicious thrust, Joel smashed the man's head into the wall, scattering it with blood and shattered skull.

He stumbled back, chest heaving, as the body slumped to the ground face first and did not move. The rainwater running through the cobbled street began to stream scarlet red.

"You okay?"

Joel looked up to find Tommy beside him, chest likewise heaving from exertion and hair plastered to his head from the rain, but he was otherwise unscathed. Joel swallowed, catching his breath before he nodded. "Yeah, I'm good. You?"

Tommy nodded. "I'll live. More than these guys can say."

They both turned, surveying the sodden alleyway. Rain continued to pound the street, leaping up not just from the gray and brown cobbles, but from the half dozen other bodies that lay face down on the ground, camouflaged jackets soaked, gas masks cracked and askew.

Joel bowed his head with relief, letting a sharp breath escape him as he looked back up at his brother and gave a small smile. "Nice work, little brother," he said, clapping Tommy on the shoulder.

Tommy returned the smile. "You too, old man."

Kneeling, Joel set his elbows on his knees as he looked over the nearest body, searching for anything distinct, anything that might help identify who these men were. As he did so, however, he grunted at the cutting pain that suddenly lanced across the back of his head again. With a grimace, he reached up and gently ran a hand through his hair, prodding at his scalp where his attacker had driven him back against the window.

His hair was wet from the rain, but when he pulled his fingers away, blood ran across his palm, watery as it mixed with the downpour from above.

"He get you?" Tommy asked, standing above.

Joel shook his head. "It was the window. Shattered when he tried to put me through it. I'm fine."

"If you say so," Tommy shrugged, then gestured towards the bodies. "What're we gonna do with these?"

Standing, Joel wiped his bloody fingers on his jeans and shook his head again. "Leave 'em. Ain't our business. Someone else'll come along."

"We shoulda helped them."

Panic twisted Joel's stomach and sent his pulse racing as a quiet voice that was not Tommy's spoke beside him. He flinched back a step, eyeing darting down to the small figure at his side.

Checkered pajama bottoms. Beaded necklace. Soft blond hair. Bright green eyes. Frowning. Frowning. She should have been smiling.

Joel woke with a gasp and a choke.

The room spun above him. It was several seconds before the dizzying fog of the dream gave way to murky reality. Light streamed in through battered venetian blinds, stretching across the bedroom's dusty floorboards and the dirty plaid blanket that had snarled around Joel's legs. He had bolted upright without realizing, propped up on one elbow and twisted towards the side of the bed, as if he had been preparing to spring to his feet.

Outside, he could hear rain. It gently tapped against the window and along the sill.

He drew a long, deep breath and let it out slowly through his nose. Rolling to his side and kicking off the blanket, he swung his legs to the floor. The room had stopped spinning, but Joel leaned forward unsteadily, bracing his elbows on his knees as he pinched his eyes shut and allowed his jaw to clench and unclench several times.

The dream did not usually wake him so violently. He had expected it to fade some, after Tommy had left, without his brother to always remind him. But it hadn't. It had gotten worse.

He ran a hand through his sweaty hair, grimacing suddenly at the stab of pain that greeted his finger's touch. Frowning with annoyance, he twisted to look back at the bed behind him. His pillow was thin and bunched with abuse, but a dark stain was now smeared across one half.

Joel dropped his hand. Dried brown flecks of blood clung to the tips of his fingers. Several gleamed wet in the gray light.

He sighed and wiped his hand on his jeans before rising. Steps heavy with lingering grogginess, he shuffled around the bed and out into the cramped kitchen and dining area that comprised the only other room in the small apartment. An open bottle with a shredded label stood on the edge of the dining table, half empty. Joel snatched up a chipped glass that had been tipped on its side and poured out a generous splash of the bottle's clear liquid, quickly knocking it back.

Instantly, the fog of sleep vanished as the moonshine burned hot and sharp as fire and ice, leaving a trail that Joel could feel from his throat to his stomach. Whatever Donny and his brothers put in the stuff, it smelled of corn and rubbing alcohol and left a feeling like the lining of ones' esophagus had suddenly withered away.

Joel cleared his throat, just as a set of knuckles rapped against the front door.

Despite a flash of irritation, Joel's eyes flicked to the lip above the door, where half a scissor blade was gently propped in case of emergency. He set the glass back on the table and crossed the room, setting his shoulder against the wall beside the door. Glaring, he threw back the deadbolt and pulled open the door an inch, careful to keep his boot braced against the inside of the door to prevent it from being opened further.

A sliver of a face glared back at him, one brown eye and a strip of black beard.

"It's me, for god's sake," Troy growled.

Sighing impatiently, Joel stepped back and pushed the door open without a word. Troy needed no further invitation, bulling into the apartment with his usual brusqueness and leaving Joel to close the door behind him.

"Tess is on her way," Troy grunted, swinging a pack off his shoulder and shoving it onto the small kitchen island. Gray light from outside shown through rain drops on the window, dappling across the side of Troy's head, where a rippling, waxy red scar comprised the only remnants of what had once been his left ear. "She's payin' her respects or whatever. 'Cause of Donny, you know."

Joel returned to the table and began pouring another glass of clear moonshine. "It was infected got 'em both?"

"Mmhmm."

"Which ones?"

"Gabe and what's his face. Eric. Aaron. I dunno. Eli. Oh yeah, Eli."

Lifting a brow, Joel offered the glass to Troy. "Don't strain yourself."

"Ha ha," Troy said, pulling a face as he accepted the liquor. "Anyway, they're movin' into the zone now. Donny and his youngest brother, Mark – see, I remember that one – they're comin' behind the walls. It's just the two of 'em anymore, figure they're better off inside."

"Yeah," Joel snorted. "Maybe."

The scar across the left side of Troy's head was a sober reminder of just how infection-free certain "safe" areas of the zone actually were.

Troy tossed back the moonshine as quickly as Joel had moments before, shaking his head and setting the empty glass on the countertop before vaguely pointing at Joel. "How's the head?"

"Fine," Joel muttered, waving the question away.

"Mmhmm," Troy grunted. "That's called bullshit."

"You a doctor now?"

"Sewed up a buddy's head once, when his dealer came after him for not payin'. That count?"

Joel shot Troy an unamused stare, but was spared having to answer by the rap of another set of knuckles on the door. "It's open," he growled, perching himself on the edge of the table.

With a click, the door swung open to admit Tess, her hair pulled back under a kerchief and the shoulders of her shirt dappled with drops from the rain outside.

"Morning," she muttered, lightly kicking the door closed. Like Troy, she carried a small backpack, which she dropped to the table behind where Joel sat. As she did so, she glanced sidelong at him. "And how are _you_?"

"Fine," Troy answered for Joel, cocking his head to the side as he crossed his arms. "He's fine. He's always fine."

Tess's eyes narrowed and flicked to Troy, then back to Joel as she leaned forward, angling to look at the back of his head. "And your head?"

"Also fine," Troy snorted. "Which I betcha is why he ain't wearin' a bandage."

It was like a younger sibling tattling to mom, except Troy was at least fifteen years Joel's senior and Tess more than a decade his junior. Still, Joel rolled his eyes and gave a sharp sigh, pushing off from the table and impatiently throwing his hands up. "Jesus, the two of you. I'm—"

"Fine?" Tess lifted an unimpressed brow. "Sit down."

"That's my cue," Troy grunted. "I'll be downstairs when you two finish blowin' up at each other." He slid his pack off the counter and shot Joel a pointed look before crossing the room and disappearing out the door without another word.

When he was gone, Tess turned back to stare at Joel. "Sit."

Grimacing, he pressed his lips together and did as she said, sinking into one of the table's two chairs. Tess circled behind him and immediately began prodding the back of his head, squinting as she pushed his grizzled black hair out of the way. A fresh stab of pain brought a wince and a quick intake of breath from him.

"Jesus Christ, Joel," Tess muttered angrily. "Asshole tried to fucking scalp you yesterday. Least you could do is put a goddamn bandage on it." She reached past him and snatched up the bottle of liquor. "And this? This was full yesterday morning. You want to get shitfaced, fine. I'll join you. But save it for when you're not trying to bleed out from your fucking head. Your blood's probably thin as water right now."

Joel said nothing. He sat with his jaw set, staring irritably at a spot on the far wall.

After several seconds of his silence, Tess shook her head and grabbed a dirty rag from the kitchen counter. "Fine," she said. "Don't move."

She cupped the rag over the top of the bottle of liquor and flipped it, letting the rag soak for a moment before putting the bottle back down. None too gently, she began to dab at the back of Joel's head, instantly causing the wound there to flash so hot and angry that Joel flinched forward away from her touch.

"I said don't move," she repeated sharply. Then, with a pinched sigh, her tone softened. "The whole back of your head is matted, Joel. I don't even know how you can sleep with this."

Joel bowed his head forward, fingers digging into his knees as Tess worked. He had no mirror in the apartment, but even if he had, he could hardly have seen what the back of his head looked like. What it felt like, at least, was as if someone had carefully flayed the whole back of his head, and was now cleaning it with sandpaper and salt water.

"What's it look like?" he grunted through clenched teeth.

"Like you got the back of your head skinned, then drank yourself to sleep so the damn thing wouldn't clot."

"Tess," he snapped impatiently.

"_Joel_," she snapped back, dabbing more forcefully than she probably needed to. "You got knifed in the back of the head. What do you _think_ it looks like, Texas? You're lucky the idiot was just swinging the knife and not using the pointy end." She worked in irritable silence for a moment, then grudgingly muttered, "It's about the size of a golf ball. Maybe two."

He closed his eyes, teeth slowly grinding at the fire leaping across his scalp. Tess finally stopped dabbing and Joel could hear her rustling around in her pack. A second later, with the sound of ripping paper, she clapped something cloth-like onto the back of his head and began wrapping a role of gauze over his ears and around his brow.

"Tess…" he started to say, rolling his eyes as he realized she was using some of the rare actual medical supplies they possessed, rather than just another rag.

She cut him off. "I swear to god, Joel, if you complain…"

He stopped talking.

When she finally finished, she gently shoved his shoulder and stepped back to survey her work. "There," she said, crossing her arms. "You're welcome."

Joel gingerly tested the bandage, fingers prodding the gauze that was wrapped around his head. "Thanks," he grumbled after a moment.

"Dear god, gratitude," Tess snorted, tossing the bloody rag she had used to clean the wound to the kitchen counter. "Someone dig this man a grave, we may finally have found something that kills him."

He glanced up at her and, for a second, they shared brief, equally unimpressed stares before both of them shook their heads and let slip grudging half-smiles.

"Just don't do it again, got it?" Tess said. "You say you're going to handle it, handle it."

"Yes, mom."

She smirked at him, then kicked the back of his chair, prompting him to stand. "Okay, big guy. On your feet. While you've been trying to bleed out, the rest of us are making a living. Troy told you Donny and Mark are moving into the zone? I told them there was an empty apartment in Area 1, West End District."

Joel's brows came together as he pulled on a light jacket and adjusted the collar. "What apartment? There's nothin' over there."

"Not _yet_. That couple we smuggled in a few months ago is living there. They still owe us a month of cards. So we're renegotiating the terms of our agreement."

"What, move or be moved?"

"I'll make it worth their while," Tess said, her expression over-dramatic, as if Joel had suggested an affront to her good name. "I'll waive their last month of cards if they go without a fight."

Joel smiled, zipping up his jacket. "You're all heart, Tess."

She nodded sagely. "I _am_ the benevolent type. You ready to go?"

"Yes, ma'am."

* * *

><p><em>September 18, 2022, Afternoon<em>

The smooth edge of the boulder exploded in burst of broken rock, instantly causing Tommy to flinch back beneath its cover and screw his eyes shut against flying dust and stone slivers. The bullet that had struck the boulder careened off it, plunking instead into river that frothed white and angry around the massive stone.

"Tommy!"

Marlene's voice carried over both the barrage of gunfire and the rushing noise of the river rapids. She was pinned down behind a line of boulders with a half dozen others in their company. Rock chips flew around them, but they were holding their own, darting out from cover fast enough to get off a shot across the river to where their attackers were using the tree line as cover.

"Edgar's people!" Marlene called over the noise, pointing past Tommy. "Get those bastards off them! They'll never clear that left flank if they're pinned down where they are!"

"Got it!" Tommy yelled back, holding up a hand to acknowledge. His back was pressed against the boulder behind him and he rolled away from Marlene to face his squad. "Foxtrot! Joe and Yoko, covering fire! The rest of you, on me!"

Curling his rifle against his stomach, he glanced over the top of the boulder, checking the distant tree line, then leapt up from his cover and pounded towards another, equally imposing boulder. Bullets ricocheted around him as he slid behind the river stone, throwing his elbow up to shield his face against the shards of rock that the wayward fire was hurling into the air. As soon as he was under cover, he dug his boots into the damp ground, twisting and bringing his rifle to bear. He squeezed off a shot just as Max slid into position beside him, likewise clutching an old hunting rifle.

"Max," Tommy grunted as he ducked back behind the boulder. "You and Andrea cover Joe and Yoko. Joe! Get your asses over here!"

The squad of seven slowly began to work their way down river, working in pairs to lay down covering fire while the rest of Foxtrot darted to new cover, always keeping to the great hulking boulders that dotted the river's edge. Eventually, the boulders began to thin, growing smaller and less closely stacked against one another as the shoreline gave way to mud and wet gravel. It was as the river rapids calmed to a swift, wide current that they met up with Edgar and his people.

Several of them were crouched with their knees and waists in the river, taking cover behind a crown of boulders, each roughly half the size of a small car. The remainder were on shore, pinned down some sixty feet from Tommy's team, behind a stack of downed trees that had long ago washed up against the river's bank. There were less than ten of them altogether.

Edgar knelt behind the logs, a double-barreled shotgun cracked open and held in the crook of his arm as he pulled two spent shells free and quickly thumbed in fresh ones. He was well into his sixties, but his sandy brown hair and beard had only just begun to gray and his long, thin face had the look of a man who has spent most of his life out-of-doors, weathered and rough, filled with deep etched creases rather than fine hairline wrinkles.

He looked up as Tommy's team slid into cover behind several boulders just up river. With a jerk, he snapped his shotgun shut, then waved.

"Our knights in shining armor!" he called out, in a deep baritone designed for bellowing.

"Heard you could use some help!" Tommy returned, pointing towards the opposite shore, where muzzle fire lit the tree line. A bullet thudded into the muddy ground several feet from him.

Edgar nodded, then jerked a thumb towards the river. "They've got height on us! Pinned us down when we tried crossin' the river to hit their flank! You got flak jackets?"

"Two!" Tommy held up two fingers, tapping first his chest, then Joe's, to indicate who in their squad had the benefit of body armor.

Edgar nodded again. He had braced one hand against the damp pile of logs, but he cringed down as the top of one of the downed trees suddenly exploded in a flurry of wood slivers, sending a stray bullet spiraling off behind him. Looking up again, he waved his shotgun towards the river. "Get my people out of the water! They got two wounded out there! We can't do shit with our people exposed!"

Tommy held up a thumb to acknowledge, then shouted above the noise again. "Wait for our signal!" Returning his attention to his team, he grabbed Joe by the front of the kid's flak jacket. "Joe, you're with me. We're gettin' those folks out of the water. Max, you got point here."

"Rescuing damsels in distress, eh?" Joe said, grinning.

Max pulled a face. "If there are damsels out there, kid, they've got shotguns. Keep your chivalry in check, huh?"

A bullet cracked overhead.

"Okay, people," Tommy barked, quickly sobering the squad. "Max, gimme covering fire. Light up that goddamn tree line."

"Aye aye, boss!"

With a whoop and a holler, the old veteran leapt up and steadied his rifle across the top of the boulder they were using as shelter. The others quickly followed and soon a salvo of gunfire rocketed across the water, shredding leaves and branches on the distant shore. Seconds later, a second volley opened up further down the river as Edgar and his people opened fire as well.

Cradling his hunting rifle to his chest, Tommy heaved himself to his feet and began pounding towards the water, boots sinking and slipping on the slick river rocks that formed the shoreline. He hit the water with an almighty splash and instantly sank up to his ankles. Another few steps and it was up to his shins, a strong and increasingly insistent undercurrent threatening to unbalance him. The noise around him was deafening and it was impossible to tell whether the churning water around him was the result of his own splashing or wayward bullets plunging into the river. He did not slow to find out.

By the time he and Joe reached the group stranded on the crown of rocks jutting out in the river, Tommy was soaked through and Joe looked, if anything, even wetter. They sank to their knees in order to take advantage of the cover provided by the rocks, bringing the height of the water full up to their waists.

Four of Edgar's people awaited them. A man leaned against one of the rocks, face drained of color save for a gash above his left temple. Another man was with him, an arm hooked under his injured comrade's shoulder. As for the other two, both were women, one roughly Tommy's age, the other well into her forties. The water rose to the older woman's chest, as if she were seated on the river bed, and judging from the grimace she wore, Tommy guessed she was nursing an injury that prevented her from standing

"Thank god for Fireflies," the younger woman said grimly as Tommy splashed into cover beside her.

"Glad _someone_ thinks so," Tommy returned, shaking his head as he raised his voice above the gunfire. "What you got here?"

The woman wiped the back of a palm across her brow, pushing her sodden hair out of her eyes. She looked almost wild, with her short blond hair soaked and twisted by the rush of the river and her cheeks bright red as if the current had been battering her and the others for some time.

"Sonya took a bullet, upper right thigh," the woman said, tone curt and exhausted. "They only grazed Earl's shoulder, but he hit one of the rocks while trying to dodge. Can't stand straight now. I think concussion."

Tommy braced a hand against the rock that the woman Sonya was sitting against. "Can she walk at all?" he said, noting Sonya's pale face before glancing back up at the blond-haired woman.

She shook her head.

"Goddamnit," Tommy muttered, jaw tightening as he cycled through options, of which there seemed precious few. "Okay. Okay. If our people—" he jerked a thumb back in the direction of Edgar and the remainder of Foxtrot Squad "—lay down cover, you reckon you can help me carry her?"

"Of course," the woman replied, as if it were a silly question.

A swell buffeted against Tommy and he dug his boots into the gravelly river bottom. "Alright then. Joe!" The kid sloshed water as he waded to Tommy's side. "Okay kid, we're carryin' 'em out, got it? You and that other fella got the guy with the head wound. Me and her got Sonya here. You give us five seconds head start, then break cover. Straight for the rocks Foxtrot's behind, understood?"

"Aye aye, boss!"

Tommy gave a sharp nod and pushed Joe away towards the two other men. Twisting back towards shore, he could see his Fireflies and Edgar's people, now exchanging more controlled, precise gunfire with their attackers across the water.

"Max!"

At Tommy's shout, Max's gray hair and brown face appeared around the side of a distant boulder. He was bleeding from several lacerations across his nose and lips, likely the result of flying shards of stone.

"We're comin' back!" Tommy yelled, cupping his hands around his mouth. "Lay 'em low!"

Touching two fingers to his brow in salute, the old veteran disappeared from view again. A second later, Foxtrot breached cover as a single unit, five Fireflies swinging rifles and shotguns up to rest atop the boulders they crouched behind before muzzle fire snaked through the air and the crack of gunfire drowned out the noise of the river. Edgar and his people quickly followed suit.

"Here we go!" Tommy gritted through clenched teeth, looping his rifle strap over his head before stooping and pulling one of Sonya's arms across his neck. She only moaned at the motion. The blond-haired woman quickly grabbed Sonya's other arm.

"Hey Sonya," she said quietly, sharply. She gently patted Sonya's back as she positioned her shoulder under the wounded woman's arm for support. "Hey, hey, stay with us, girl. We're movin' now, you got it? Here we go, here we go."

Shaking river water from his face, Tommy glanced sidelong at the blond-haired woman. "Ready? Okay, let's go!"

Together, they quickly stood, pulling Sonya up to a semi-standing position, both of her arms draped over their shoulders. She cried out at the sudden movement, but neither Tommy nor the blond-haired woman paused. Instead, they immediately began plowing towards shore, fighting thigh-high water and a swift current as they awkwardly maneuvered Sonya's prostrate form between them.

Tommy felt stones shift beneath his boots as he ground his teeth together, struggling to keep his balance. In the next second, however, a brutal force slammed into his back, as if he had been struck by a baseball bat, so suddenly and so viciously that the air was instantly driven from his lungs and he lurched forward, plunging face first into the rushing river. The world went silent, all sound abruptly snuffed out.

He broke the surface gasping for air, choking on the water that had filled his mouth and nose and grunting at the pain that had bloomed across his back. Somewhere in his fall, he had released Sonya, but the blond-haired woman was pulling her to her feet again, shouting words that it took Tommy several seconds to unscramble.

"I'm fine!" he huffed, finally processing what she had been shouting. He rapped his knuckles against his chest. "Body armor! C'mon!"

Though still winded, he pulled Sonya's arm back over his neck, ignoring the shake in his own limbs. Yet as they turned to renew their awkward retreat to the shore, Tommy stopped with confusion.

Edgar was standing, looking across the river, but he was no longer aiming his rifle. Others had stood from their cover too, shielding their eyes against the sun above as they pointed to the opposite shore. Perplexed, Tommy turned to see what had so abruptly caused them to abandon the firefight.

The tree line across the river came almost to the water's edge, but the low ground cover gave an easy view into the thickly wooded area, all dappled light and lush green evergreens. Their attackers were fleeing, flashes of brown coats and jeans darting between the trees as they waved and shouted at one another. There was panic in their voices, and small wonder. Away to Tommy's right, but still on the opposite side of the river, he could see other figures galloping through the forest, creatures shaped like humans but moving with inhuman speed, backs arced and fingers curled like animals. Panicked, sporadic gunfire began to echo through the trees as the howls of infected mixed with the screams of those unfortunate enough to have been caught by them.

"Holy hell," Tommy grunted breathlessly. "Never thought I'd be happy to see a pack of Runners before."

"Must've been drawn by the gunfire," the blond-haired woman whispered, nodding with exhausted relief. "Guess they're good for something."

Tommy shook his head with disbelief. "Well, that's _one_ way of doin' it."

"Hey, whatever it takes, right?"

They both looked up with half-smiles almost giddy with rapidly diminishing adrenaline. Without another word, they began sloshing forward again, this time without the frenetic rush necessitated by enemy gunfire. Tommy ignored the sharp throb that started at the center of his upper back and was rapidly spreading to his shoulders and ribs.

They reached the shore dripping and breathing hard, Sonya hanging limply between them. As soon as their boots hit dry ground, several of Edgar's people dashed forward and gently relieved them of their burden, easing Sonya off of their shoulders and carrying her away from the river. Others pushed past them to help Joe and the other two men, who followed close behind.

Double-barreled shotgun in hand, Edgar emerged from behind one of the boulders, a weary grin splitting the deep creases of his weathered face. When not pressed into the sparse cover afforded by a pile of logs, he stood tall and gaunt and moved with the sort of lanky stiffness born of height and age. As he neared, he wrapped an arm around the blond woman's shoulders.

"Nice job, kid," he rumbled, hugging her close and gently kissing the top of her head. Then he released her and held out a hand to Tommy. "Much obliged, mister. Infected or not, you did us a real good one goin' out there like that. I can't thank you enough."

Tommy met the old man's hand and shook it, nodding as he introduced himself. "Tommy. It's the least we can do for you. You're doin' us a real favor too, lettin' us stay with you a coupla days like this."

Edgar quietly snorted and shook his head. "Ain't exactly the sanctuary you were probably expecting, with bandits payin' us a visit. So much for a quiet tour of the dam."

Tommy started to shrug, but he winced at the sudden pain that the movement brought, radiating out from the spot where the bullet had punched into the back of his flak jacket. Concern flashed across Edgar's face. "You okay?"

"Fine," Tommy replied, grimacing. "Just some asshole tryin' to shoot me in the back. The vest caught it."

A hubbub of voices brought their attention up again as several Fireflies appeared at the top of a slight rise in the ground, coming from the direction of the rapids up stream. A second later, Marlene appeared as well, looking grim and tired, but unscathed.

"Looks like your boss is here," Edgar said. "Give me a second to talk to her, figure out what we do from here." He glanced back at the blond-haired woman, then pointed to Tommy. "You look after him?"

She nodded. "Course."

Cradling his shotgun in the crook of his elbow, Edgar gently clapped Tommy on the shoulder, then began striding towards the rise. When he had gone, the woman turned back to Tommy and gestured towards the bulletproof vest he wore. "You wanna get that off?"

"Suppose I better," he nodded, pulling a face.

Backing up a few steps, he perched on the edge of one of the shorter boulders and gingerly began pulling off the denim jacket he wore over his body armor. Without asking, the woman followed him and hooked her fingers under the jacket's collar to help ease him out of it.

"You're Edgar's girl, right?" Tommy asked, wincing slightly as he shrugged off the jacket. She nodded, then tossed the jacket onto the boulder behind him. Tommy squinted, opening his mouth as he tried to remember the woman's name from when Marlene had introduced Edgar and his people earlier that day. "Ah…"

She smiled and shook her head. "Maria."

"Right, right. Maria."

"But of course you remembered that."

"Yeah, yeah, course."

With a knowing smile, Maria nodded and circled behind him, helping to tear off the Velcro straps that held the bulletproof vest in place. Tommy leaned forward as she pulled the vest over his head, letting out a sigh of relief as the pressure on his back was removed.

"How often you get bandits like that?" he grunted, digging his palms into his knees.

Maria tugged up the bottom of his shirt to get a look at his back. "It comes and goes. They don't usually try to hit Jackson – too many people, the walls. But they know we're more exposed at the dam." She paused. "Yeah, you'll have some nice bruises. No broken skin it looks like, though."

He nodded gratefully, gently clearing his throat. "I'll just try not to breathe too deep, right?"

He felt her twitch up the end of his shirt a little more as she craned her neck, curious. "You've been shot before?" she asked after a second, glancing back at him. "Left shoulder?"

"Yeah. Baltimore. Before I joined the Fireflies. Kind of a long story."

Nodding, she shrugged and let his shirt fall back into place, prying no further. "Well," she sighed, straightening, "you'll hurt for a while, but I'm going to go out on a limb and say you'll probably live. Might want to get yourself checked out though. We've got a doctor back in Jackson can have a look at you."

Tommy gave her a polite smile, uncertain why the thought of an appointment with a doctor made him wary, then lightly shook his head. "I'll be fine. Thanks though."

Maria eyed him for a second as if she sensed his wariness, but she only nodded. Then her eyes darted past Tommy's shoulder. "Here's dad."

Gingering turning to follow her gaze, Tommy straightened as Edgar rejoined them, still cradling his shotgun in the crook of his elbow. "Still in one piece, I see," he rumbled, eyes smiling. "One of your people up river took a bullet in the ankle. Tyrone, I think was his name? Anyway, Marlene's gettin' him back to Jackson along with Sonya and Earl. I figure it's about time we all be gettin' back, before it starts gettin' dark. No sense chasin' after the bastards now, not when they got their own problems."

Standing, Tommy stooped to grab his rifle. "You folks go on ahead. I think I'm gonna take my guys across the river for a bit. We burned through a lotta ammo today. Gonna give the infected some time to clear out, then see what we can salvage from the bodies we left across the way."

Edgar nodded. "Of course. We'll see you back in town?"

"Yeah. Yeah, we'll…we'll catch you up."

"Okay." The older man turned to leave, then glanced back, his expression sincere. "Thank you, Tommy. Truly."

Tommy tipped his head in acknowledgment, then shook his dripping clothing, retrieved his jacket and bulletproof vest, and bid father and daughter goodbye.

* * *

><p><em>September 19, 2022, Dawn<em>

A ribbon of pale pink light was slowly working its way down the rugged rock outcrop that overlooked Jackson, lacing into the blanket of dark green trees at the bottom. Along the valley floor, the dim glow of electric light was softly being washed out by the onset of dawn, rubbing out the shadows that gathered around Jackson's gray roofs.

As a boy, whenever Tommy and Joel had gone to visit their grandparents' farm outside Austin, Grandpa Jim had always roused them before dawn to help milk the handful of dairy cows they kept and to clean out the paddocks in the crumbling old barn. But after they had finished, Grandpa Jim would get his cup of coffee and the boys would get their hot chocolate, and the three of them would sit out on the porch and watch the dawn rise, stark and orange as it stretched across Grandpa Jim's swaying hay fields. The Texas light had always seemed hazy, like a warm and familiar presence laying across the land.

But here, the air was impossibly clear, almost crystalline. The colors that lit the sky and trickled down into the valley below were bold and bright, at once imposing in their grandness and yet honest in their clarity.

Tommy blinked slowly as he watched the town below. He could see figures with rifles milling about in the guard towers that rose above Jackson's 10-foot high walls. But beyond, in the streets between the town's sturdy gray roofs, kids were playing. The streets were overgrown and discolored and littered with dead leaves, but they had kids playing in them. Little kids, racing around and pushing each other as if playing tag or hide-and-go-seek. Tommy wanted to smile. Yet he just watched, unsure why his stomach was slowly twisting at the sight.

A woman was making her way up the hill that he sat atop. She walked with her head down, the light catching her blond hair as she waded through the long grasses and wildflowers that carpeted the hillside. A shotgun was slung over one shoulder.

As she neared, she looked up finally and gave him a small smile.

"Mornin'," Tommy greeted.

"Morning," Maria returned. "My guys said they saw you come up here."

"Yep. I did."

She came level with him and turned to look back down at Jackson, squinting at the rising sun. "Mind if I join you?"

"Nah, go ahead."

Unshouldering her shotgun, Maria laid it down on the ground and took a seat next to Tommy, resting her arms across her knees. She did not say anything.

After a second, Tommy glanced sidelong at her, absently chewing the side of his cheek. "Can I ask you somethin'?"

"Sure."

"Why do you let people in?"

She returned his glance, a brow lifting. "We don't let just anybody in."

"Okay, why Fireflies?"

She drew a long breath, as if sorting through her thoughts for the highlights of an otherwise long story. "Dad used to work at the dam," she said finally. "Way back, before I was born. When everything started goin' down, he figured this place would be the best bet. Secluded, compact, potential for electricity. Defensible, you know?"

Tommy nodded.

Maria shrugged. "Well, we weren't the only ones, apparently. We got here, a group of about ten of us, and found out FEDRA had already taken over the place. You remember those signs at the dam yesterday? That was them. They didn't have the plant up and running yet, but they were here."

"What'd they do?"

"Arrested us. Said we trespassing on government property." She pulled a face, shaking her head. "Like there's such a thing as trespassing _or_ government property anymore."

Tommy snorted, smiling.

"Anyway, they said they were takin' us back to Idaho Falls. It still had a quarantine zone then, though it's long gone now. But they never got the chance. Day after they caught us, the dam was attacked by a group of rebels callin' themselves the Continentals. I don't know what exactly they wanted – keep the military from gettin' any more footholds, I guess – but they drove the soldiers out of here. Let us go. Said we were free to do as we wanted."

Tommy nodded, beginning to understand. "So you told them they were welcome if they ever came back."

"Yeah. Couple years later, the Continentals fell apart, I guess. Took one too many hits. Most of those still alive joined up with you guys, the Fireflies. So, Fireflies are welcome too. We usually see you maybe once or twice a year, when you're passin' through. Your group's on your way home, right? To Boston?"

Although he nodded again, Tommy said nothing further. He let his eyes drift back down to Jackson, to the street where the distant figures of kids were playing. They seem to have some kind of ball they were kicking around now, red or orange like a basketball. It kept getting tangled in the overgrown grass beneath a towering pine tree.

"You know," Maria said, interrupting his thoughts. "They should have breakfast cooking by now. I didn't see you at dinner last night. You're missin' out, let me tell you." She grinned. "Fresh eggs and sausage. No coffee, I'm afraid, but Donna makes something that passes pretty admirably for tea."

Tommy gave a light chuckle and leaned back, hands on his knees, but after a second, he only shook his head, shooting her a polite smile. "Nah, thanks. I'm good."

He leaned forward again and noticed Maria watching him out of the corner of his eye. Eventually, she signed and leaned forward as well, turning to follow his gaze to the town below.

"It's weird, isn't it?" she said abruptly.

Tommy's brow wrinkled as he looked up. "'Scuse me?"

"This." She waved towards the town. "Eggs and sausage. Electricity. Doctors. Kids in the street, playing. All just…makes you a little uncomfortable, doesn't it?"

Tommy opened his mouth to reply, but suddenly looked away, lips pressing together. The twisting in his stomach was growing. "Listen," he muttered slowly, "I don't mean to…"

"Offend me?" Maria smiled sadly, shaking her head. "Don't worry, you're not the first. There's usually one or two like you whenever we get a group of you Fireflies comin' through. I get it. It can be a little overwhelming."

He chewed the side of his cheek, beginning to wish she was not there, yet not wanting her to go either. "I just…" he started to say, then licked his lips, sighing. "I spent a lot years tellin' myself, or…bein' told, that what you got here ain't possible. Anymore. And I don't just mean the walls and the food, or even the electricity. Just…folks lookin' after each other. And…" He draw a deep breath and released it. "For the most part, not at the expense of others."

He faded to silence, not looking at Maria, though he could tell she was still staring at him. Her expression was odd, as if she was not certain what to say. Tommy wondered if she had ever seen a quarantine zone, or worse, one of the once densely populated city centers he had spent years navigating before Boston, where the infected roamed like animals and the uninfected were little better. Where would Tommy and Joel be if they had gone west instead of east, all those years ago, after Huntersville? If they had headed for the mountains instead of the coast?

"It's stupid," Tommy muttered, looking at the ground between his legs. "I should be excited about this. I wanna be. What you got here, this is what we're supposed to be fightin' for. I guess it's just a little hard to believe."

"You don't believe what you can see with your own eyes?"

"No, I just…" He drifted off again.

Maria nodded slowly, quietly filling in his unspoken thoughts.

"You're just not sure it'll last."

Tommy glanced at her with an apologetic smile, expecting her to leave. But she didn't. To his surprise, she returned his smile, but her expression was not sad or sympathetic. Instead, she was shaking her head, as if confident she would prove him wrong.

"Well, I tell you what," she said, standing. "Why don't you come down with me anyway? I won't make you eat eggs or sausage, I won't even make you talk to anyone. Just…come down and try bein' a part of it. At least for awhile."

She stooped and scooped up her rifle, then turned back to him and held out a hand to help him up.

Tommy stared at her, lips slightly parted. His eyes flicked back to Jackson, to the street with the kids. One of them was knelt in the tall grass beneath the pine. As the kid straightened, triumphantly clutching the red ball, Tommy looked back up at Maria.

"Yeah, okay," he said quietly, meeting her hand as she helped pull him to his feet.

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><p><strong>Thank you for reading and reviewing! As always, remember to Follow either this story or me as an author for immediate emails when I update. Though the email alerts seemed somewhat delayed last time...But MOST of the time, they work. ;)<strong>

**So! Tommy's back on his way home, to Boston. Tune in next time to see what Joel and Tommy think of each other after two years apart. Will they greet each other with open arms? Will they even speak at all? Wait and see! :)**


	27. Chapter 27 - Familiar

**Oh, my patient, patient readers! Believe you me, I am well aware of just how long it has been since my last update and if I worried any of you that I might have abandoned this story, please accept my sincerest apologies. Aside from my usual work/school busyness, several personal commitments multiple weekends in a row conspired to keep me busy, which I'm sorry to say led to the first period of writer's block I've encountered in the year and a half I've been working on Dirt. That's the only excuse I can offer. With the finish of this chapter, I've managed to work out of that block and am already hard at work on the next chapter! In the meantime, please enjoy this one. :)**

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><p><span>Chapter 27<span>

_March 23, 2023, Before Dawn_

Boston was familiar.

Still bleak, broken, and feral, but familiar. Even here, outside the zone, where the looming skeletons of gutted skyscrapers and the torn slabs of pulverized asphalt and cement looked more like ancient ruins than what had once been a thriving city, the desolation was at least familiar.

Dangerous, but a devil that you knew.

Tommy glanced up at the buildings that towered over them, black silhouettes against the pale white gleam of a half moon. It felt colder now that they were so close to the ocean, where the air was damp and salty. He never would have noticed it before, when the wafting smells of restaurants and beauty shops or the growl and choke of automobiles would have clogged the air. But now, Boston was being retaken. Ivy had slowly wound its way from decorative terraces up the sides of buildings and through the crevices of windows, and young trees now grew in the midst of cobbled plazas and parking lots. The city smelled of salt and mold, and the only sounds were the groan of its dying skyscrapers and the gentle sigh of nature taking hold.

It should have felt peaceful – the quiet, the darkness, the slow dismantling of the city. But the glare of spotlights in the distance reminded Tommy what awaited them.

He dropped his gaze, ignoring the lights that winked between buildings and instead leaning forward on his knees. He was seated on an old newspaper dispenser that had been turned on its side, its glass front broken and spilling out a weathered pile of yellow newspapers with headlines that proclaimed _CDC PROMISES FRESH VACCINE TRIALS_. He ignored those too.

"Home sweet home, huh?" Marlene said quietly, standing behind him.

"Pfft," he snorted, twisting to lift a brow at her. "Yeah, not really."

She smiled ruefully and crossed her arms. "We'll get it there."

Tommy stood, deftly retrieving his hunting rifle and cradling it in his arms, one hand hooked around the scope, as was his habit. He squinted at the distant lights of the Boston Quarantine Zone.

"Thank you for coming, by the way," Marlene murmured. "I know you wanted to stay at the university."

He paused for a second, then shrugged.

"It's different, coming back," she continued, likewise letting her gaze wander to the faraway spotlights flickering between buildings. "When I first got back from Richmond, when you and Joel were with me, the whole place felt strange for a while."

The passing mention of Joel's name stilled the breath in Tommy's chest for a second as the anxiety quietly simmering beneath the surface began to churn again. He swallowed and blinked, forcing himself to focus on Marlene's words.

"It feels the same," he muttered, shaking his head. "Just like the day I got here."

"How so?"

He shrugged again. "Like…in Baltimore, it was big enough that you just…people knew about the bad, but they didn't always have to think about it. Wasn't always in their faces. So, in their way, folks had their kind of family, community. Here, there ain't none of that. Just a half-mile square of nothin' but gettin' beat down and desperate."

"Well, that's what we trying to change, isn't it?"

"Yeah," he sighed, nodding.

He did not say it, but their return to Boston had brought with it a return of that creeping unease so familiar to Tommy, an inexplicable tension that tightened across his shoulders and sent a dull ringing through his ears. Out west, that unease had faded, not just in himself but in the other Fireflies as well. Fewer infected, fewer people, fewer zones. Now, waiting for a smuggler to spirit them back into Boston, it felt as if they were waiting to sneak back into prison.

A pinprick of light suddenly flashed on and off from the third level of a hulking black parking garage away to their left. On and off again.

"Here we go," Tommy muttered, pointing. Marlene turned to follow his gesture.

The light flashed again, longer this time, then off. On and off. On long, then off.

"That's our man," Marlene said, raising her voice slightly to rouse the rest of their company. "Tommy?"

Nodding, Tommy pulled a flashlight from a loop on his belt and pointed it towards the distant parking garage. He clicked it one, twice, three times, following a pre-arranged pattern. The pinprick of light on the garage's third level flashed twice more in acknowledgement, then darkness.

They waited.

Several minutes passed before a dark figure detached from the side of the office building next to the recessed bus shelter they had been using for cover. The figured neared and slowed and Tommy heard the distinctive click of a safety switch being flipped off.

"Who are ya?" came a growl through the darkness.

Tommy found himself smiling without meaning to as he gently loosened his grip on his own rifle. He recognized that sullen southern drawl.

"Troy," he barked back, clear and measured. "It's us. Relax."

A flashlight snapped on and a beam of light hit Tommy in the face, causing him to squint.

"Well, goddamn."

Several Fireflies flicked on their own lights, bathing the ground in grimy yellow before the lights flickered across first the smuggler's nicked and battered boots, then lifted to ripple across a black rifle and leather vest very familiar to Tommy.

"God_damn_." Troy emerged into the pool of light, wearing a twisted, squinting expression that a stranger might have found to be unfriendly, but which Tommy knew was almost the closest the big man came to smiling.

"How you doin', Troy?" Tommy grinned, meeting Troy's extended hand as the two briefly clapped each other on the back in a half-hug.

"Ain't dead yet, huh? Not bad," Troy answered, shaking his head. He wore a black stocking cap, the sides pulled over his ears.

"Likewise, old man." They stood back from one another, but Tommy's grin slowly faded as he took a breath, leaning in. "You, uh…" he started, then licked his lips. He tried not to let his voice catch. "Uh…Joel?"

A corner of Troy's mouth twitched as if he understood Tommy's suddenly subdued tone. But Troy just gave a brisk nod and grunted, "He's fine."

Relief spread through Tommy and he gave a small nod. The tension in his shoulders released and he realized suddenly that he had been holding his breath in those few seconds that Troy had taken to answer. Troy's mouth twitched again and he clapped a hand on Tommy's shoulder as he pushed past him.

"Hey darlin'," Troy said as Marlene stepped up from behind Tommy. She gave one of her rare, tired smiles and held out a hand, shaking it firmly when Troy took it.

She nodded. "Good to see you, Troy."

"Still alive too, huh?"

"Despite all odds."

Troy snorted, then lifted his flashlight to scan the faces of those assembled. His lips parted as if he were counting heads.

"You ready to go?" Marlene murmured, eyes quietly flicking to the buildings that leaned precariously around them.

He grunted. "Always. But you got too many for one run. What are there? Maybe twenty-five of ya?"

"Twenty-three."

"Right." Troy turned, waving vaguely towards the sweeping spotlight in the far distance. "Well, you mighta noticed they knocked the wall back. Set up along State and Court Streets. Leaves 'em the old greenway as a buffer zone between the wall and the rest of downtown. We got new tunnels dug in, but there's less cover than before with that fuckin' greenway to cross now. I ain't takin' groups bigger than eight at a time these days."

"That's three runs. Can you make that many in a night?"

Troy nodded. "I'll pick up a buddy after the first go, so you don't have to wait for me to get back for the last group. Should be able to fit you all around the Feds' new patrols."

"Okay," Marlene said, likewise nodding. She pointed at Tommy. "Foxtrot first. Soon as you're in, leave one man at the tunnel to wait for the rest of us, then report in to Bas. Understood?"

"Yes ma'am," Tommy replied, slinging his rifle over a shoulder and glancing back towards the distant spotlights.

Brusquely slapping the side of Tommy's arm, Troy muttered, "C'mon then," and pushed past him without another word. Marlene lifted a hand in farewell and Tommy nodded, turning to follow Troy as the rest of Foxtrot Squad fell into line behind him.

They left the bus shelter behind, keeping to the darker shadows afforded by the looming office building and parking garage where Troy had first signaled them. As they rounded the corner and found themselves in yet another dark street lined with old brick buildings, Troy turned briefly to press a finger to his lips and point towards an intersection a block away. Tommy could hear ragged, distant groans and saw, several hundred feet from them, what looked like pink translucent specks twitching erratically in the darkness, all at head height.

Infected.

One of them suddenly let out a tortured croak and the translucent specks jerked wildly for a second before stilling. The ragged groans returned, accompanied now by a high, feeble clicking sound.

Correction. Clickers.

Crouching forward, Troy clung to the side of a row of glass-fronted store windows, jogging quickly with his black rifle cradled in front of him. Tommy followed and the anguished, incessant clicking slowly faded behind them.

They passed rusting cars and broken mountains of rubble thrown up by the violence of Boston's long ago bombing. The buildings grew shorter and the shadows less deep as Troy led them, not towards the sweeping spotlights of the quarantine's distant wall, but north from the downtown area, angling for what Tommy guessed to be the zone's northwest corner. Yet after several minutes spent scrambling over a twisted mess of corrugated steel plates and cinder blocks, Tommy realized something.

They had crossed into an area that had once been part of the quarantine zone.

He found himself disoriented. Many of the rusting vehicles they passed now bore military insignias or were stamped with the bold block letters of FEDRA. Most had bullet holes sprayed across their sides and windshields and several were little more than blackened shells charred by fire. Shredded tarps floundered in the darkness, splayed over wooden pallets with moldy bedding and the ashes of cook fires built within great steel drums. It was eerie, like two distinct layers of ruin: one older, the broken, dusty remnants of a dead civilization; one newer, comprised of brittle imitations, attempts to cling to that civilization, now themselves abandoned to ruin.

"What the hell happened here?" Tommy muttered as he threw a leg over a short wall of sandbags that had once formed a military checkpoint.

Troy grunted. "New York," he growled, tone sour. "Told you that hell hole was a warzone. Well, they brought that shit up here. Remember that big cemetery few streets over from Charlie?"

Tommy nodded. Granary Park or Granary Ground or something like that. It had been an old cemetery filled with crumbling headstones, a short distance from Checkpoint Charlie and thus a frequent meeting point for the stragglers they had once smuggled into the zone.

"Bunch of them refugee bastards set up camp there," Troy continued, kicking up chunks of brick as he slid down a pile of rubble from a blown out guard tower. "Kept pickin' at our guys, stealin' shit, killin' the odd fella. Til finally they blew up Charlie. Well, then it's war, ain't it? Our guys gave 'em hell, but it weren't pretty. So the Feds pulled up stops and pushed the wall back, conscripted hundreds of folks so that new wall went up practically overnight."

"'Our guys'?" Tommy said, lifting a brow. "Since when did you become a fan of the Feds?"

"I _ain't_. But they ain't a buncha sons a bitches from Brooklyn, are they?"

"Nope. Just our sons a bitches."

"Right."

Tommy gave a small smile and drifted into silence. He could hear the rest of Foxtrot following behind, their packs and rifles rattling gently as their boots slid over the loose gravel and glass scattered across the street. A part of Tommy wondered if he ought to feel some sort of loss, to see part of the Boston zone reduced to this state, but he did not. Instead, he still felt dimly as if they were returning to prison. What did it matter if part of it had fallen apart in his absence?

"Here we go," Troy grunted as their group slid down a steep embankment created by the broken slabs of what had once been an elevated highway. The jagged ends of the cement roadway jutted into the air like the shattered bone fragments of a compound fracture.

Troy skirted the edge of several deep hollows filled with scummy rainwater, coming finally to stand beside a massive sewage grate, taller than him by several feet.

"This leads to the new north tunnel," he said, rapping a knuckle against the iron grate.

Tommy nodded and turned back to his squad. "Up and at 'em, Foxtrot. Hope you like wet boots."

He was answered by a tepid round of chuckles. Trekking across what remained of the continental United States in the middle of winter had meant that their boots had been wet far more often than they had been dry.

Iron whined as Troy pulled open the grate, which swung easily and with minimal noise, suggesting Boston's smugglers kept it oiled to avoid attracting attention from either infected or the military. As Troy stepped through the opening, his flashlight flickered around what looked like a long, wide space with moonlight streaming down through slatted grates above, glimmering across a smooth stretch of water. Small pipes ran the length of each wall and old cans and other bits of rubbish floated limply in the darkness.

"Watch your footin'," Troy growled. He crouched and leapt down into the pool of water, sinking full up to his chest and raising his black rifle above his head to keep it dry.

Tommy followed, likewise lifting his gun into the air before he splashed down into the water behind Troy.

"So how about Tess and Rodger?" Tommy muttered as they began sloshing through the tunnel. Splashes behind them indicated the rest of Foxtrot had dropped into the water as well.

Troy snorted "Tess is Tess, same as ever," he grumbled. "Her and Joel still keep together, mostly workin' round the docks anymore. Ain't so many folks in and out of the zone no more, so most smugglers deal in guns and cards these days. Just a coupla loners like me workin' under the walls anymore."

"And Rodge?"

"Yeah, he…" Troy glanced sidelong at Tommy, frowning. "He mostly just sits on the tunnels these days, watchin' to make sure it's just smugglers usin' 'em. Drunk more often than not. Ever since Hem, y'know?"

Tommy bowed his head, nodding. He tried to ignore the familiar guilt that twisted in his gut.

They reached the end of the waterway and Troy heaved himself up into the wide, round opening of a large pipe, tall enough to accommodate a grown man without stooping. As he came to his feet again, Troy pulled off his stocking cap and wiped grime and sewage water from his brow, making a face as he did so.

"Jesus Christ, what the hell, Troy?" Tommy said suddenly, lips parting as his flashlight caught a flicker of the waxy red scar that stretched across half the old smuggler's face.

It was a brutal sight, all twisted flesh and discolored skin, but with that oddly smooth quality of an aging scar. A small hole was all that remained of Troy's left ear.

"What?" Troy grunted, squinting. Then he rolled his eyes with realization. "Oh. Yeah, whatever."

"Whatever? How about your goddamn ear?"

Troy reached down to help haul Tommy out of the water, hooking Tommy's hand in his own and heaving backwards. "Clicker," he muttered as he snorted with the exertion of pulling Tommy up. "Bastard tore it clean off. Guess that makes me lucky, huh?"

Tommy stared with parted lips, lightly shaking his head with disbelief. "Guess so," he said quietly.

He paused briefly to help the other members of Foxtrot up into the tunnel, but then they were moving again, flashlights sweeping the damp curved sides of their makeshift passageway as their footsteps echoed up and down its length. Tommy drew level with Troy again, throwing him a suspicious sidelong stare.

"Anythin' else new you wanna mention?" Tommy muttered.

Troy shrugged. "Nope."

"What about Joel?"

"What about him?"

"Is he…doin' okay? I mean, how's he been?"

"What, am I his therapist?" Troy grunted, glaring.

"A friend, I'd hope," Tommy returned irritably.

But the smuggler only snorted again and shifted his grip on his rifle. "Folks like us don't got friends, Tommy. Just bastards we trust to watch our backs every now and again. Joel's fine. And even if he ain't fine, he's fine. You'll see him soon enough."

Jaw tightening, Tommy said nothing more.

* * *

><p>The floorboards groaned as Tommy's boot hit the top step and he came to stand on the grimy gray carpet that lined the third floor corridor. As always, the hallway was dim, lit only by the small windows on either end of it while the long-dead lightbulbs that dotted the ceiling grew brown with dust.<p>

A prostrate man lay slouched against one of the walls, thin gray hair askew and breathing shallow and quick. Needle pricks dotted his arms.

Nose wrinkling, Tommy stepped past the man and made his way down the hall, passing doors with peeling paint and gaping holes where once there had been deadbolts. At the final door on the left, the hole left by the removed deadbolt had been covered with a small plank of wood, and Tommy knew there were self-installed locks on the other side. Against FEDRA regulation, of course.

He drew to a halt outside this final door, tongue suddenly heavy and stomach suddenly tense. As he leaned forward, he listened, ear close to the door. The rapid thump of his own heart was almost all he could hear, but he thought for a second he heard the shuffle of boots from the apartment within. No matter, he would know soon enough.

Drawing a deep breath, he raised his hand, fingers closed, knuckles poised inches from the door. Then, he closed his eyes and knocked, twice.

Silence.

He listened again, leaning in and turning his head. Only the ragged, drugged breathing of the prostrate man at the top of the stairway broke the early morning silence.

Tommy knocked again.

This time he heard footsteps, and a second later, a scratching noise just above the door. Then, without warning, a lock slid back and the doorknob rattled and the door was jerked open a fraction of an inch.

"_What?_"

Tommy's breath caught.

Joel glared out at him, or at least a sliver of Joel's face glared out. Black hair wet and water dripping from his temples, his brows were drawn together with suspicion and his head was tipped just to the side as if he had positioned a shoulder and boot against the backside of the door, to prevent an intruder from forcing it inward. That was Joel. He was probably holding something sharp and painful just out of sight as well.

For half a second, Joel continued scowling through the slim opening, but as his eyes flicked over Tommy's face, his brows abruptly lifted with surprise, then drew together again with renewed suspicion, even as his lips parted in disbelief.

Tommy opened his mouth to say something, but suddenly realized that amidst his building dread of this moment, he had not actually considered what he might say when next he saw his brother. Joel looked hardly less startled. His expression remained wary but also perplexed, as if he too had never stopped to play through this scenario in his head. Perhaps he had not expected it to happen.

They stared at each other for several long moments, brother to brother yet almost strangers. And then the door opened – slowly, jerkily – as Joel stepped back several paces without a word, turning as if to silently beckon Tommy into the apartment, but without lifting a hand or otherwise gesturing any manner of welcome. Indeed, as Tommy gently cleared his throat and stepped through the doorway, Joel dropped his gaze and let it drift to the floor. Was it disbelief? Embarrassment? Annoyance?

He closed the door once Tommy was through, then turned, glancing sidelong at his brother. As Tommy had expected, Joel was holding something sharp and painful, half a pair of scissors that he gripped by the thumb loop.

"What, no gun?" Tommy said quietly. He had meant it to be a joking question, but somehow it came out only awkward and uncomfortable.

Joel's brows shifted and he held up the scissors as if suddenly embarrassed to be seen holding them. "Not since the Feds started searchin' apartments at random," he answered, reaching up and propping the makeshift blade on the trim above the door. "You get caught with a gun, they can shoot on sight."

"So you don't have a gun?"

"Not _here_."

Tommy nodded, not missing the hint of defensiveness in Joel's tone. He shuffled towards the kitchen island and gingerly deposited the small pack he had been carrying. "So…" he said, straightening and running a hand through his hair. "Hey, I guess."

Uncomfortably rubbing a thumb across the palm of his hand, Joel glanced up long enough to give Tommy a shallow nod. "Hey," he muttered in return, expression flat. But then he cleared his throat and crossed the room, saying nothing as he came to stand beside a plastic tub of water that sat on the edge of the square table beneath the kitchen's solitary window.

Without a word, he leaned forward over the plastic tub and dipped both hands into the water. That explained why his hair was wet, at least. Yet as Tommy stood in awkward silence, watching Joel rub grit and grime from his hands, he was struck by how much his brother appeared to have aged. Perhaps he hadn't really, perhaps Tommy was just now seeing it because of their long separation, but Joel seemed grayer, more grizzled. He was not yet forty, but strands of wiry silver had laced their way into his hair and beard, and hard, glaring creases had settled permanently beneath his eyes and nose.

Tommy found himself mentally re-calculating the time since he had left Boston, counting the years since he had last seen Joel, or this miserable little apartment, or this god-forsaken zone. Two and a half years seemed both a lifetime and a blink of an eye.

As Tommy began to pull off one of the fingerless gloves he wore, he heard Joel mutter behind him.

"When'd you get back?"

Tommy cleared his throat. "This mornin'," he answered, pulling off his second glove and tossing both to the kitchen island. "Early. Before dawn."

Joel did not look back to Tommy, but he did absently fix his gaze on the window and nod, frowning as if listening. "Who brought you in?"

"Troy."

"Course."

They drifted to silence again, only the slosh of the water in the tub breaking the still air. Joel grabbed a thin bar of misshapen soap, an ugly yellow-gray square like that sold by Old Helen, Boston's Queen of Rags and the brothers' one-time employer.

"So…how you been?" Tommy started, crossing his arms and carefully arranging his expression to be as impassive and unreadable as his brother's.

Joel shrugged. "Alright. You?"

"Yeah, alright too."

Nodding without meeting Tommy's gaze, Joel leaned forward and began to scrub the ugly bar of soap through his hair, the black and gray strands grown thick and dull after so long without washing. "What'd they have you doin' out there anyway? Out west."

"Just settin' up some new Firefly outposts."

"Spreadin' the word?"

Tommy resisted the urge to bristle at Joel's tone, recognizing the familiar subtle mockery that laced what would otherwise have been a normal question. But even Tommy's urge to bristle was halfhearted. With Joel's quiet jibe, it was as if the discomfort of their long separation was snuffed out without them even realizing, returning them once again to this cat-and-dog game of sarcasm traded for irritation, traded for more sarcasm.

Tommy only shot his brother a long, unamused look.

"Comin' back," he said, changing the subject, "we stayed at this one place. A dam. Folks had made a kinda…town, guess you'd call it. Walls, electricity, everythin'. Just folks workin' together." He sighed, not really expecting Joel to understand. "That's how it oughta be here."

Joel glanced up, soap running down his temples. His expression was skeptical. "And how many people in this paradise?"

"A hundred, maybe more," Tommy answered, bracing as he sensed what Joel was getting at.

"A hundred?" Joel muttered, shaking his head as he bent back over the tub. "You got twenty-five thousand in Boston, Tommy. Thirty-five, countin' illegals like you and me. Really think that many people are goin' to work together?"

"Better worth tryin' than sittin' round lettin' the Feds grind everybody down."

Joel only snorted and shook his head again, as if Tommy's answer was as weak and feeble as he had expected. In that moment, Tommy felt every bit the pissy little brother that he was sure Joel thought him to be.

Hair soapy, Joel had grabbed a chipped glass from the table and filled it with water from the basin, which he was now awkwardly pouring over the back of his head to rinse out the soap. Tommy quashed his irritation and uncrossed his arms, impatiently snatching the glass out of Joel's hand and filling it again with water. Joel did not resist as Tommy took over the task of pouring water, but he did shoot Tommy an annoyed expression.

As Tommy poured, Joel scrubbed, washing out a week's worth of accumulated dirt and dust and other unpleasant things. Yet with Joel's wet hair plastered against his head, Tommy noticed a patch where the hairs parted at the back of his brother's scalp and the skin beneath was twisted and discolored, as if concealing a fairly new scar. To Tommy's knowledge, there had been no scar there prior to his leaving Boston, a thought which quietly sobered him and caused his simmering irritation to dissipate.

When they had finished, Joel straightened and pushed the basin of dirty water across the table, grabbing a checkered shirt that had been hanging on the back of a nearby chair and using it to dry his dripping hair. Tommy retreated back to the kitchen island and re-crossed his arms.

"So you plannin' on stayin'?" Joel finally muttered, glancing up as he rubbed the checkered shirt over one ear.

Tommy lifted a brow. "In Boston?"

"No. Here."

"If I said yeah?"

Joel said nothing, only tipping his head to the side. It was not a denial, but not exactly a ringing endorsement of Tommy moving back into the apartment either.

"No," Tommy muttered, sighing impatiently. "I don't plan on stayin'. I got orders, people I'm responsible for. I'll be stayin' with the Fireflies, wherever they put me."

"Orders?"

"Yeah, Joel, orders. Fireflies are a military organization. I got orders." Jaw tightening, Tommy shook his head and pulled his small pack off the kitchen island, shouldering it and grabbing his pair of fingerless gloves. He glanced back at his brother. "I just came by to see how you were doin', that's all."

"I'm fine," Joel returned woodenly.

"Yeah," Tommy grunted. "I shoulda figured."

Still shaking his head, Tommy pushed past Joel and headed for the door. It was not like before, when Tommy had left Boston and the urge to be gone from this dank little apartment had made him angry with impatience. It was simply that there was nothing more to be said, and no point in sticking around any longer not saying it.

Yet as Tommy passed his brother, he noticed Joel's expression change, sinking to the floor, twisting uncomfortably as Joel's breathing quickened.

"Tommy, wait," Joel suddenly said, lips pinching together.

Tommy paused, hand on the doorknob as he glanced back at his brother.

At first, Joel did not meet Tommy's gaze. He became strangely animated in his small movements – shifting his weight too much, fingers working too quickly as he continued drying his hair. Tommy's brows drew together. Joel was more comfortable with silence than with speaking, but when he spoke, he did so without issue and, usually, without filter. Yet now, he acted as if he were working his way up to something he did not want to say. When he finally did look up, his jaw clenched around a tight sigh.

"You…" he started, clearing his throat. "You'll probably hear this from somebody. May as well…may as well be me."

Like cloying fingers, dread slowly stole over Tommy. Who had died? Joel would not act so uncharacteristically ill at ease unless he was about to be the bearer of bad news. Names and faces cycled through Tommy's head, candidates for whatever ill fate Joel was about to reveal.

Tommy had seen Troy with his own eyes, and Troy had spoken of Rodger and Tess, which meant both were alive. Bas and the Boston Fireflies had seemed well enough when Tommy had briefly reported to them earlier that morning, and in any case, Tommy doubted Joel cared enough about them to bat an eye over revealing any misfortunate that may have befallen the group. Donny perhaps? Or one of his brothers? They lived outside the zone, infrequent visitors who largely kept to themselves and entered Boston only to trade drugs and booze. Donny was a decent enough man, but hardly someone Tommy would shed tears over.

"You, uh," Joel said, "You didn't get much news out west, I'm bettin'?"

"No," Tommy replied warily, frowning.

Joel nodded as if having figured as much. His lips parted and he stared at the door, not quite at Tommy, though his eyes flicked towards Tommy every few seconds.

Finally, he cleared his throat again, and muttered, "Baltimore's gone."

It took a moment for Tommy to process what Joel had said. He heard the words, but at first Tommy's only absurd thought was that Joel was making some vague, abstract statement that the past was gone and it was time for Tommy to move on. Tommy felt himself bristle again, wishing just for once that Joel would stop harping on about survival and adapting and moving on.

But Joel's body language was all wrong. He was not lecturing. He was not judging.

Tommy's mouth slowly fell open, the tension in his brow releasing. He leaned into the door, setting one shoulder against it and bracing his hand on the doorknob to steady himself. Part of him wished that his knees would buckle, so that he could fall to the floor and not have to move, but they didn't. Instead, a numb kind of clarity stole over him, the steadiness that was his natural instinct and defense in the midst of firefights and other dangerous situations, before the familiar adrenaline-induced shaking set in.

"Was about a year ago," Joel murmured, when Tommy said nothing.

With his hand on the doorknob, Tommy glanced down, eyes slowly going to the wristband he wore, more gray than black now, after years of sweat and dirt. Faintly, the letters UST DO T still clung to the band.

Tommy swallowed, drawing a long, deep breath. "How…how'd it happen?"

"Nobody knows," Joel said, shaking his head quietly. "Not for sure, anyway. Infected behind the walls, but no breach, far as we were told. Most folks reckon it was the bodies."

"Infected?"

Joel nodded. "Outside the wall. Didn't burn 'em quick enough."

Even in his numbness, Tommy shook his head at the irony. "Three days," he muttered.

"_Three days and the bastards start sproutin'_," Joel said softly, repeating the phrase spoken so many times by Jack Breslen that Tommy had had nightmares of Clickers and Runners in body armor and helmets patrolling Baltimore's walls.

Tommy let his head dip and closed his eyes, breathing slowly through his nose as he careful steeled himself for the question he knew he had to ask. "Survivors?" he said quietly.

Joel was silent at first, causing Tommy to open his eyes again, but Joel only shook his head. "I'm sure there were some," he shrugged. "But they ain't here."

That was something. Baltimore had been home to tens of thousands of people. If the infection had initially taken only those unfortunate enough to have been exposed to spores on the wall, then it was unlikely that the zone had been overrun by one of the herds of infected that had frequently assailed Baltimore's walls. Survivors with cool heads could have escaped. Annie, in her prime and already adapted to life on the road. Percy, 13 or 14 by now, old enough to look after himself. Jan, nearer 70 than not, but steady, unflappable, capable of getting herself out of a bad situation.

If the infected had been relatively few. If the military had not overreacted. If people had not panicked or turned on one another.

"Decent chance they made it out," Joel said, interrupting Tommy's thoughts, even as he echoed them. "But…even if they did, doubt we'll ever know."

Tommy nodded. That was the way of things. If you did not watch them die, then they simply became void spaces in your mind, people who might still today be alive somewhere in the world, or who could have perished years ago.

The doorknob rattled as Tommy pushed away from the door and turned the knob.

"You alright?" Joel suddenly asked, tone surprisingly mild.

"…You really askin'?"

"Yeah."

"No," Tommy replied, shaking his head. "No, I ain't. But I ain't been alright for…the last decade. Just keep movin' on, right? 'Til I'm fine?"

Joel was silent.

Sighing, Tommy nodded ruefully and opened the door. He drew a breath and glanced back at his brother. "It's good to see you, Joel."

"You too."

Tommy paused, shooting Joel a weary half-smile and nodding, then he stepped out into the dim hallway and pulled the door closed behind him.

* * *

><p><strong>As always, thank you for reading and reviewing! I promise that my next update will be much sooner in coming than this one was. Up next - Joel and Tommy may not be living or working together anymore, but they still inhabit the same city. As things heat up between Boston's military and its rebel underground, the brothers cross paths and their old bonds are put to the test.<strong>


	28. Chapter 28 - Shamrock

Chapter 28

_November 28, 2023, Dusk_

It was a hundred-foot drop to the ground below, where a plaza of wet gray stones and blackened store fronts was cast in the lengthening shadows of dusk. Abandoned vehicles, many of them military, dotted the open space, resting on rotted tires and rusting with disuse. Against one wall, beneath smashed windows and a grimy sign that read _The Running Company_, a pile of charred bones created a black soot circle that the drizzle falling from above did little to wash away.

The growl of an engine echoed through the plaza.

Fingers gripping the slick edge of the cement roof atop which he hid, Tommy pulled himself forward on his stomach, chin pressed against the flat surface. The drizzle was soaking, chilling to the bone, but it had the advantage of creating a grayish haze that would conceal him from the casual observer below, melting whatever small silhouette he created against the overcast sky and failing light above him.

His eyes flicked across the plaza, searching for the source of the mechanical growl. A second later, a squat military cargo truck trundled into view, its canvas cover removed, leaving metal ribs exposed. There were no soldiers in the back, but they accompanied it on foot, blue uniforms and helmets, automatic rifles held fast and ready. Five, then ten, then fifteen, all slowly rounding a corner into the plaza and spreading out in defensive formation.

"Shit," Tommy muttered. He dug into his jacket front and pulled forth a small handheld radio he had concealed in an inner pocket. "Echo, get the hell out of there," he whispered, holding the transmit button and speaking low and fast. "Foxtrot here. You got company inbound. Direction: Clinton Street. I count sixteen Feds, plus one cargo truck and driver. ETA: two minutes."

He wriggled back from the edge, still pressing himself against the flat roof as he waited for an acknowledgement over the radio. A second passed and none came.

"Echo, Echo, do you copy?" Tommy growled, holding the transmit button again. "Military inbound, Clinton Street, ETA two minutes. Do you copy?"

The radio buzzed, belching static for a moment before a broken voice answered him. "_Copy, Foxtrot_," came a male voice, tone pinched as if distracted and working fast. "_Almost done here._"

Impatience flashed through Tommy as he continued pushing himself back from the edge of the roof. "You're done _now_, Echo," he transmitted. "I repeat, sixteen bodies on the ground. This is not a patrol. Repeat, not a patrol. It's a salvage crew, heavily armed. Fuckin' get outta there."

"_This mother's got flak jackets and half a crate of ammo,_" the male voice crackled over the radio again. "_We _need_ this shit._"

"Damnit, Nolan," Tommy muttered into the radio. "That's why the Feds are headed straight for you. Clear out!" He heaved himself to his feet, now far enough from the edge that the lip of the roof concealed him from any eyes below. Pocketing the radio, he hugged his hunting rifle to his chest and began jogging across the roof, crouching low just in case.

"Max!" he hissed, waving urgently. The old veteran knelt on the opposite side of the rooftop, chewing stale sunflower seeds and cradling a semi-automatic rifle. The building they were atop was long and narrow and Tommy and Max had been keeping watch on either side of the narrow portion. The remainder of Foxtrot were gray figures in the drizzle, huddled in the distance where the length of the building ran to an end. Max's leathery brown face was a picture of unfazed composure, but as soon as Tommy waved for him to follow, he was on his feet, spitting sunflower seeds to the ground.

"We got company," Tommy huffed as they both jogged across the sodden rooftop. "Sixteen ground units, one cargo truck. I'm bettin' they're here for the same Hummer Echo's strippin' down."

"Nolan knows?" Max grunted, water beading in his beard.

"Bastard knows. Don't mean he's movin' yet."

"We're not equipped to take on a salvage crew, Tommy."

"Tell me somethin' I don't know."

They reached the end of the building and slid into kneeling positions as Tommy hastily gestured for the five remaining members of Foxtrot Squad to gather round.

"Salvage crew inbound," Tommy whispered, loud enough for his squad to hear. He held up his hand and angled it back in the direction from which he had come. "Approachin' on Clinton Street. Sixteen ground units, one cargo truck and driver. Body armor, helmets, automatic weapons. Headed straight for Echo. Do not engage unless I signal. Got it?"

All gave silent acknowledgments. Pausing, Tommy leaned out to peer down at the ground below. It was a second plaza, this one smaller but eventually connecting to the larger plaza in which Tommy had seen Boston soldiers approaching. Like the other, this open mall area was dotted with abandoned vehicles and other detritus, but one vehicle in particular looked more recently forsaken than the rest. It was a military Humvee, its right rear tire blown to shreds. The bodies of dead Runners were sprawled on the ground around it and the driver side door was ajar, spilling out the bloated corpse of its unfortunate former operator.

Echo Squad was still there. Tommy could see the Fireflies below working feverishly, hauling out boxes of cartridges and plastic bags with dusty gas masks, stuffing them into open packs, moving at frantic speed despite the cobbles that had grown slick with drizzle and old blood.

"Nolan, you asshole," Tommy hissed, hand once more plunging into his jacket and pulling out his radio. "Echo," he whispered, transmitting. "Time's fuckin' up! Move, now!"

Turning back to his squad, Tommy quickly began pointing to positions. "Yoko and Joe, northwest corner. Allen and Andrea, western side. You'll have sights on the Feds there. If the enemy engages before reaching the plaza where Echo is, keep them pinned down and away from Echo as long as possible. If Echo gets its ass in motion before the Feds get there, I want you back on the north side here. Max and Keith, you're here on north with me. Do _not_ engage if Echo clears out in time. If it doesn't, then covering fire until those idiots can get the hell outta Dodge. Move!"

The squad broke apart in one fluid motion, Fireflies crouching and cradling firearms as they scuttled to take up their assigned positions. Tommy sank to his stomach again and pulled himself forward on his elbows, taking up a position that gave him a clear vantage of the mall area below where Echo Squad was finishing up.

Yet even as he watched Echo cinching down packs and throwing them over their shoulders, two figures detached from the building that formed the edge of the plaza opposite from where Tommy and his people watched. The figures were running, carrying packs of their own and barreling straight towards the unsuspecting group of Fireflies below. Like a near silent movie, Echo Squad was suddenly in motion, shouting words that Tommy could not make out, holding up rifles and pistols as the two strangers charging towards them abruptly ground to a halt, as if seeing the Fireflies for the first time.

"What the…" Tommy muttered, hugging his rifle close to him and bringing it to bear on the ground below. This area was technically still a part of the Boston Quarantine Zone, but it was off limits to civilians, frequented only by military patrols and the infected that broke through the crumbling old walls that had once formed the outer perimeter of the zone. The only others who dared tread here were smugglers or Fireflies looking for either salvage or easy prey in the skeleton military patrols that occasionally passed through.

Now the two strangers were holding up pistols of their own, shouting more words that Tommy could not make out from this distance, standing off with the Fireflies below as each side yelled back and forth through the drizzle. Tommy peered through the scope of his rifle, fixing his aim on one of the strangers. A checkered shirt and dark jacket. Black hair and beard.

"Holy _shit_," he suddenly murmured.

It was Joel.

His breathing quickened and he sighted on the second stranger. Troy.

Tommy felt his pulse start to race.

Yet whatever may have come from the two sides squaring off against one another, it never had a chance to happen. Suddenly, through the gaping entrance of the building Joel and Troy had just exited, the loping forms of Runners broke cover in an ungainly dash across the plaza.

A gunshot cracked through the air.

Others followed, as Fireflies and smugglers alike were suddenly diving for cover and pouring lead into the front ranks of the charging infected. It was not a herd, but Tommy counted at least a dozen, ripping out from the building in a long, strung-out line, tearing towards the disabled cargo truck behind which the Fireflies had taken cover.

"Allen, Andrea!" Tommy suddenly barked, all need for covertness shattered by the gunfire below. "You got eyes on the Feds?"

"Yessir!" came the shouted reply.

"Then light 'em up! Keep them outta that plaza long as possible! Rest of Foxtrot, concentrate fire on those Runners! Do _not_ fire on the civilians!"

As gunfire erupted across the rooftop, Tommy hunched back over his rifle and squinted through the scope. There was no sign of Joel or Troy, but he could see Echo Squad scrambling, some still firing at the nearing Runners, others trailing across the plaza in a hasty, disorganized retreat towards the building where Tommy and his team were located. Tommy drew a deep breath and released it, slow and steady, as his crosshairs centered on a Runner with short blond hair and military fatigues. He pulled the trigger.

The rifle leapt back against his shoulder and a puff of red mist burst behind the Runner, which stumbled and toppled to the ground. Tommy's movements became automatic. He jerked the bolt back, chambering another round as the spent cartridge whizzed past his ear. Steady breath, tug the trigger, brace against the kickback. Like so many times before, Tommy's world became only the metallic grind of the sliding bolt, only the roar of gunfire, only the numbing reverberations that leapt through his fingers every time his rifle discharged. Rainwater dripped from the scope.

"Tommy!"

With the ringing whine of battle pinching at his ears, Tommy could barely hear Andrea's shout from across the roof. He twisted and looked up, finding her crouched several feet from the edge of the roof, one hand over her ear as she pointed behind her.

"They're in the building!" she yelled. "They didn't head for the plaza!"

"Which building!" Tommy shouted back, scooting back from the edge and coming to his knees.

Andrew pointed downwards. "This one!"

Shit. In an instant, Tommy's mind flashed through options. The military salvage crew was in their building. It was the start of a large, multi-leveled mall, partially sunk beneath ground level and housed in a series of long stone buildings. Access to the roof where they were was granted via a single staircase, once reserved only for mall staff and emergency exits. If the soldiers were entering this building, then Foxtrot's primary exit was about to be cut off.

"Foxtrot! On your feet, time to quit this place!" Tommy peered out over the edge, back to where the disabled truck that Echo had been scavenging still sat. Neither Echo Squad nor Joel and Troy were anywhere to be seen, but Runners continued to sprint across the plaza, strung out in a line that headed roughly for the base of the building where Tommy and his people now stood.

Great. Soldiers _and_ infected.

"C'mon, Max," Tommy grunted as he quickly came to his feet and reached down to help Max up. Foxtrot Squad was already moving, weapons still held at the ready as they jogged towards the metal door at the center of the roof that was their exit. Joe reached it first and jerked it open, fumbling to pull free a small flashlight looped into his belt.

"Lights on," Tommy growled, breathing fast as he reached the roof access and started down the stairway without pausing. As he fished his own flashlight out of a pocket, he felt his wet boots slip then catch on the metal stairs, briefly unbalancing him as he pounded down them.

"Goddamn fucking rain," someone above him muttered as more boots began thundering down the stairwell.

The tight space was pitch black and cold, enough to make Tommy's breath fog in front of him as he led his team towards the bottom. With half a dozen flashlights out, beams of gritty yellow danced wildly across the cement walls, where water damage had left long discolored streaks. At certain places, they passed scatters of bullet trails, holes punched deep into the cement and rimmed with reddish-brown. And with the tunnel-like quality of the stairwell, their hasty passage down was anything but quiet, a disorganized cacophony of rattling equipment, squeaking boots, heavy breathing, and the hum of the metal stairs as the company pounded down them.

"Echo, do you copy?" Tommy said, huffing as he pulled out his radio again and pressed the transmit button. "Echo, I repeat, do you copy? Nolan, do you copy? What's your position?"

He was taking the steps two at a time, rifle in one hand, flashlight and radio in the other. Nothing but dead silence answered his transmission.

Suddenly Tommy heard the muffled sound of gunfire, coming as if through a wall.

"Goddamnit," he swore, jaw tightening.

They hit the bottom of the stairwell, where one door beckoned them outside with a dusty _EXIT_ sign, while another read _MALL ENTRANCE_ in blocky white letters. Tommy paused, hand on the push bar for the mall entrance door.

"We find Echo and we get outta here, got it?" he said, looking back to his squad. "Engage the Feds if you have to, but don't get pinned down. We're outmanned, outgunned, and out-armored, and we ain't gonna win a straight draw."

Foxtrot nodded its assent and Tommy pocketed his radio and flashlight again. The sound of gunfire intensified, this time as if just beyond the door they now stood poised at. Lips pressing together, Tommy gave a sharp nod, then threw his shoulder forward.

The scene that greeted them as the door slammed open was anarchy.

Muzzle flashes lit the dark mall interior, otherwise illuminated only by the dim sprawl of dusk through a pair of double glass doors and the chaotic darting of flashlights across shuttered store fronts. The roar of gunfire echoed from floor to ceiling.

The atrium teamed with moving bodies. Soldiers to the left, Fireflies to the right, and everywhere the howling, deranged cries of infected. Echo Squad looked to have taken shelter behind the counters of a round security desk, but Runners were now scrambling over it, fingers flying, or else slumped across it, bloody and twitching. Fireflies were lashing at them with knives and rifle butts, shoving gun barrels into their mouths and guts and pulling the triggers at point-blank range. The military seemed to be faring little better. Soldiers hunkered into the stripped interiors of several nearby stores, heaving shelves and display racks to the ground as a makeshift wall to slow the Runners streaming into the mall. For every quick putter of automatic rifle fire that flew in Echo's direction, another was aimed at the double glass doors and the infected racing through it.

Foxtrot Squad barreled into the midst of this mayhem, exposed but completely ignored.

Tommy sank to a knee, shrinking the target that he presented standing, and pointed towards the soldiers taking cover in the stores to Foxtrot's left.

"Max, Andrea, smoke out!" he shouted, though he could barely hear himself.

In the corner of his vision, he saw Max and Andrea step out, pulling cylindrical smoke grenades off their jackets and ripping out pins. Gray-white smoke instantly began spewing from the emission holes at the tops and bottoms of the grenades, choking the dusty air as the two Fireflies hurled them across the atrium. With no breeze to disturb the still mall interior, the grenades struck the ground and began spinning, belching long gouts of smoke thick enough to obscure the Fireflies from the soldiers.

"Move!" Tommy barked, coming back to his feet and starting to pound across the atrium towards the round security desk where Echo Squad was fighting for its life. He could not count how many infected had entered the mall, but it had to be at least twenty by now, all Runners.

An infected in a faded blue hoodie was scrambling over the top of the security desk when Tommy reached it. He grabbed a handful of the infected's blue hood and jerked, ripping the Runner off of the desk and rolling it to the floor, where it sprawled on its back, howling. Tommy heaved his rifle over his head and brought the butt of it crashing down on the infected's neck, crushing cartilage and collapsing the monster's windpipe. That abruptly stopped its howling, but it continued to thrash wildly, gurgling as it struggled to come back to its feet. Tommy brought the rifle down again, this time caving in the creature's skull.

At that moment, a body hurtled into Tommy from behind, slamming him into the desk in front of him and driving the breath from his lungs.

"Tommy!" someone shouted.

He twisted, heart racing, thrusting his rifle diagonally away from his chest to throw his attacker off him. It was a Runner, once a black man with short hair and a frayed white shirt. The creature flew at Tommy, its eyes characteristically blood shot, bulging veins creeping down from its hairline, skin slack and loose. It was taller and thicker than Tommy, with long arms that reached past Tommy's rifle and scratched at the base of his neck, and it lunged so violently against his outstretched arms that they threatened to buckle under the creature's weight.

"Ahhhh!" Tommy yelled, tipping his head back to avoid the infected's flailing hands. Yet as the Runner pressed Tommy against the security desk behind him, he felt his boots slide on the tile floor beneath, already slick with the blood of other fallen infected. Almost in slow motion, Tommy felt himself slip towards the floor, head striking the edge of the desk as the Runner flopped down on top of him and both tumbled to the ground.

Fingers dug into Tommy's face, pressing into his cheek and around his eyes, broken fingernails scraping across his skin. Teeth clenched, Tommy growled, then yelled, pushing up with the butt of his rifle in an effort to heave the Runner off and flip it away from him. The creature's gaping mouth came perilously close to Tommy's face before he twisted away, partially freeing himself from the infected's weight.

And then someone was standing over him. Suddenly Tommy felt the sharp slice of air as a boot came within inches of his head, flying over him and cracking instead into the side of the Runner's ribcage, abruptly spilling the animal to the floor. Without looking up, Tommy swiftly rolled away.

He came to his stomach and elbows just as the person standing above him levelled a black pistol on the writhing infected and pulled the trigger. The Runner shrieked, a red bloom opening up to the left of its chest as it started to scramble back to its feet. Then Tommy brought his rifle to bear, squeezing off a round that punched through its head just beneath the eye. It dropped backwards in a spray of blood.

The stranger above Tommy turned, looking down.

"C'mon, Tommy," Joel grunted, holding out a hand.

"Jesus Christ," Tommy breathed, relief shaking through him as he grabbed his brother's hand and struggled to his feet. "You got fuckin' timin', Joel."

"Yeah, makin' an entrance," Joel returned dryly. Probably without realizing, he brushed dust from Tommy's coat once Tommy was standing again.

Tommy barely noticed, his brief elation rapidly giving way to action again as he turned to check the positions of those around him. Foxtrot had formed a semi-circle around the security desk, muzzle fire flashing as they poured lead into thinning lines of infected still straggling in through the double glass doors, which were now shattered. Behind the desk, Echo Squad seemed finally in control, a bedraggled huddle of bloodied and sweaty faces, surrounded by the corpses of the infected. And a few of their own too.

Joel leaned into Tommy, having to shout over the noise of gunfire. "Those smoke bombs of yours ain't gonna last forever."

"Right," Tommy grunted. "Nolan!"

"I'm here!"

From behind the security desk, a round-faced man with angry red cheeks and a receding line of thin black hair picked his way over bodies, gripping a semi-automatic rifle in one hand and steadying himself against the counter with the other.

"Two dead, one bit," Nolan breathed, voice guttural with exhaustion. "Five standin', including me."

"Then grab the gear and let's go," Tommy quickly barked. Technically, he and Nolan were of equal rank, but the Echo Squad leader turned to comply without question.

Tommy looked back to Joel. "You comin'?"

"Yeah," Joel growled, nodding. "Troy's further in. Mall's clear in a ways. Dunno how far, but clear enough to get outta this mess and find another exit."

"Good enough for me. Foxtrot, wrap it up!"

Waving to his people, Tommy pounded the counter to rally both Echo and Foxtrot. Fireflies stood and began streaming out and around the security station, jumping over dusty lines of radios peppered with buckshot and leaving bloody handprints on the sides of broken computer monitors.

Tommy and Joel led the way, jogging further into the dark interior of the mall, fishing flashlights out as even the dim rays of the dying day ceased to reach further than the atrium they were leaving behind. As they ran, the gunfire behind them began to die, but Tommy could hear shouting instead, sharp and barked, as if orders being given.

"What the hell were you two doin' here anyway?" Tommy huffed as they ran.

Joel shook his head, face grim. "Supposed to be meetin' a fella from the outside. He never showed."

"But infected did?"

"Yeah. Had some kinda camp set up in an old office space. Bunch of 'em just standin' around, some still stuck in sleepin' bags."

"Spores?"

"I reckon. Come up on 'em in the night."

Tommy shook his head, more discomfited – as he always was – by the thought of encountering silent, near invisible spores than fighting a herd of Runners.

He swallowed as they jogged, breathing hard. "Thanks, by the way," he muttered, glancing sidelong. "For back there."

"For divin' into that mess like an idiot?"

"No, for—"

"I know," Joel said quietly, cutting off further comment.

Tommy nodded and turned his attention forward again.

Boots echoing across the tile floor and equipment rattling, the group pushed further into the mall, their flashlights catching swirling lines of dust motes as they passed skeletons of old clothing shops and beauty salons. In places, makeshift walls had been thrown up to create semi-private enclosures and plastic benches had been dragged together to make wobbly beds – remnants of when the mall had been part of the habitable Boston QZ.

They reached an area where the long length of the mall opened up and gave way to a tall vaulted ceiling with dusty skylights. The pedestrian causeway split to both their left and right, while directly before them a set of escalators descended to a lower level that they could look out on from above. Tommy caught glimpses of gaudy store signs reading _PetVille_ and _Swirls Frozen Yogurt_.

Suddenly a sharp whisper cut through the cavernous space.

"_Shamrock._"

By instinct, both Tommy and Joel instantly dropped to a knee, and a second later, the rest of the Fireflies followed their example. It was an old code word amongst smugglers, one Tommy had almost forgotten.

Quiet. Infected nearby. Not yet disturbed.

A black shadow emerged from recessed entrance of a cell phone store. Immediately, a dozen flashlights swiveled towards it like spotlights tracking an escaped felon. Troy came up short, holding up a hand and pulling an angry face as the sharp beams of light suddenly blinded him.

"Easy!" Tommy whispered, holding up a hand. "He's friendly!"

Joel snorted quietly. "Not the word I'd a used."

"I'd be a damn sight friendlier if these morons put their lights out," Troy growled as he came closer.

"Troy," Tommy greeted tersely. At his gesture, Echo and Foxtrot quickly flicked off their flashlights.

Joel shifted. "Well?"

"Fuckin' Fire-gnats," Troy muttered as he took a knee beside the group, still blinking. He shot a pointed look towards Joel, gave Tommy half an impatient nod, and promptly ignored the rest of them. "Okay, look. You got barricades goin' right, about 200 yards once you're round that corner there. That way's no-go. To left, mall keeps goin' I dunno how far, but there's Clickers in at least two of 'em stores that way. That one with the green banner over it and _Twisted_, with the black and white letters."

"Goddamnit," Joel said through clenched teeth. "How many?"

"Couldn't see 'em, but by the ruckus they make, I'd say at least a dozen. Ain't movin' yet, but they're there."

"Any chance we could use 'em?" Tommy interjected. At Joel and Troy's quizzical expressions, he continued. "We got Feds followin'. We fire a coupla shots, should be loud enough to draw those Clickers out, have 'em here waitin' for the soldiers when they get here. Meanwhile, we slip by, down there." He pointed towards the escalator and the level below them.

Troy's lips parted and he glanced at Joel, but Joel was nodding slowly, as if surprised at Tommy's suggestion. "Do it," he said, jaw tightening with resolution.

Needing no further invitation, Tommy turned to the other Fireflies. He began to gesture towards the escalator, but as he did so, he caught a glint of something, a flash of metal in the direction from which they had come.

Metal and dark figures. Rattling equipment. Boots squeaking.

"Soldiers, six o'clock!" Tommy suddenly cried out.

Even before he had finished speaking, a short row of muzzle flashes shattered the darkness and the roar of automatic rifle fire swept over them. The Fireflies leapt into motion. There was a large, waist-height planter separating them from the approaching soldiers, but they were still precariously exposed, cloaked only by the dusty gloom of the mall's interior. They scrambled back to their feet, Tommy hauling them up by their shoulders and elbows, and began to take up positions behind garbage bins and plastic benches in order to return fire. But Tommy spun those nearest him away from the soldiers and shoved them towards the escalator.

"Stop! Get outta here!" he bellowed, flinching as he felt bullets cut the air around him. "Head to the escalator! Lower level, lower level!" He twisted around to see Troy and Joel poised uncertainly at the head of the escalator, hands on its long-dead rubber belt as they looked back at him. "Go!" he yelled. "Go on!"

Troy nodded immediately and disappeared down the frozen staircase. Joel hesitated a moment longer, still watching Tommy, then turned and disappeared without so much as a nod.

Almost by instinct, Tommy could feel the soldiers closing in behind him, the relentless thunder of their assault rifles growing perceptibly loader. But the hairs on the back of his neck suddenly stood on end, and it had nothing to do with the military.

Croaking, clicking, screeches of angry misery split through the echo of gunfire like a knife through butter. To the left of the escalator, through the storefronts Troy had indicated, creatures in ragged windbreakers and tattered jeans came lurching into the dim light of the skylights above. The Clickers all bore the characteristic blooms of fungus, mushroom-like folds of clammy white flesh with pink translucent tips that engulfed their heads and left only a mouth with shriveled lips and broken teeth as a reminder of the monster's lost humanity.

Troy had been right. Tommy counted at least ten, maybe more.

Ignoring the gunfire leaping around him, Tommy grabbed Joe by the back of the jacket and hauled the kid with him as he pounded towards the escalator. Max was crouched behind the large planter and Tommy thumped him on the shoulder as they rushed past him. "Downstairs! Downstairs! Now!"

Despite the noise, the Fireflies seemed to have gotten the message. They were peeling away from their positions and sprinting towards the escalator, leaping down the stairs two at a time. Tommy reached the top and shoved Joe ahead of him.

A voice called out.

"_Grenade!_"

Over the hammering echo of gunfire and the chilling screech of infected, the voice sounded very small. It might have been Max's, but Tommy could not tell. He turned, hand poised on the lip of the dead escalator, seeing first Max barreling towards him, then a small object arcing through the air, towards the planter the Fireflies had just been hiding behind.

Breath catching, Tommy twisted back towards the lower level, movements too slow, mind too slow, body propelled only by an instinct that roared at him that he was _too slow_.

The force of the blast struck him before he heard the grenade explode. He was swept forward as if by a giant, red-hot hand, hurtling headfirst down the narrow escalator as an explosion of shattered tile and pieces of cement rained down around him.

* * *

><p>Tommy awoke to clicking. He heard it even before his eyes had opened, when his fuzzy thoughts were still arranging themselves as he emerged from the fog of unconsciousness. It sounded like an old spring, like the porch door at Grandpa Jim's farm when it would groan and slam in the wind.<p>

It croaked. Then it screeched.

Tommy bolted awake, realization dawning.

"Hey! Easy, easy. They ain't in here with us."

He felt a hand on his chest, pushing him back to lie down again. Darkness wrapped around him. Tommy sensed his head was pressed up against something large and squarish, but otherwise he could see only the vaguest outline of a person crouching over him. Not that it mattered. He recognized the gruff voice.

"Joel?"

"Yeah, it's me."

Joel could surely see no better in the darkness than Tommy, but that did not stop Tommy from fighting to suppress a smile, briefly closing his eyes as he relaxed. He let himself be pushed back to the ground.

Tommy took several long breaths. "Where are they? The Clickers. I can hear 'em."

"Out in the mall," Joel replied quietly. "We're in a store. Got the gate down." Clothing rustled as he shifted then muttered, "Troy, gimme that."

More rustling and, a second later, Joel was suddenly bathed in an eerie green light as he reached up to catch something long and thin. It was a snap light, like those used by campers or hikers. As Joel set it on a shelf above Tommy, it illuminated a counter and cash register, and a rack of polka-dot dog collars, all painted in the light's cool green glow.

Grimacing, Tommy rolled to a shoulder and sat up. "Troy's here?"

"Live and kickin', despite your best efforts," came the ex-con's grumbled answer from somewhere on the other side of the counter.

Tommy quietly snorted. "Cheerful as always."

"Real ray of sunshine," Joel muttered. He shifted again, slouching back from kneeling on his knees so that he could sit with his back against the counter. He pointed vaguely at Tommy. "I checked you. Face is raked pretty good from that Runner and you got a good crack in the head when that bomb went off, but you look okay otherwise."

"Thanks," Tommy said, nodding. "We the only ones here?"

"No. There's a kid in the corner over there. He's alive, just ain't woke up yet. Got knocked up pretty bad same time you did, when the Feds threw that bomb."

Steeling himself, Tommy slowly came to his feet and shuffled towards the corner Joel had indicated. As he came near the body slumped against a wall, Tommy fished out his flashlight and flicked it on.

It was Joe.

"Ah, kid," Tommy muttered, shaking his head as he knelt. Joe's face was red and purple beneath the eyes and around the nose, suggesting a broken nose, and the skin had split across his brow in a gash that disappeared into the kid's hairline. But he was breathing, shallow and even.

"How long's he been out?" Tommy said, looking back to Joel.

His brother shrugged. "Same as you. Ten minutes or so."

"What happened?"

"I dunno, Tommy," Joel sighed, rubbing at his eyes as if annoyed. "Your people flew to pieces after that bomb went off. That fella you called Nolan's lyin' out there, him and another. Both dead. Some older fella tried to get everybody together before the Feds got to the top of that escalator and turned it into a turkey shoot."

"Older fella. Hispanic? Heavyset, gray hair and beard?"

"Yeah."

That sounded like Max. Some good news, at least.

Tommy left Joe and returned towards the front of the shop, where Joel still sat with his back beneath the cash register. It looked like a pet store, with faded photos of dogs up for adoption and empty shelves advertising sales on cat treats and aquarium filters. As Joel had said, the gate across the front of the store had been pulled down, and beyond it, Tommy could see distant shadows shuffling in the darkness, clicking and croaking and jerking with tortured outbursts.

He felt his jaw tighten. "And?"

Joel straightened, shrugging again. "And they took off. They went one way, we went the other."

"Draggin' your ass, by the way," Troy suddenly interjected, and Tommy realized the smuggler was seated on the ground beside the gate, right at the front of the store where he could look out on the dark mall beyond. "You'n that kid."

"Yeah," Tommy nodded solemnly. "Thanks, both of you. Really, Troy. Thank you."

The big man was barely more than a large shadow on the ground, but his silence was deep, broken only by a surprised grunt and a muttered, "Welcome."

Sighing, Tommy put his back against the counter and slid down it to sit again. He gently felt his face, fingers brushing the angry swollen skin across his cheeks where the Runner had scratched him, leaving now dried lines of blood. His head hurt too, and his left forearm, as if he had landed on it during his fall down the escalator. But these were bumps and bruises, one of the routine discomforts of the world they lived in.

As the clicking and croaking beyond the gate continued, the silence in the pet store deepened. This was familiar. Sitting it out, listening to the rabid sounds of Runners or Clickers, waiting for them to move on. Time and silence were the most effective weapons against the infected, more than any gun or blade.

Tommy rubbed at his eyes, sighing again.

"So," he muttered, resting his head against the counter behind him. "You gonna say it?"

Joel shifted, chewing the silence. "Really want me to?" he finally returned.

"No," Tommy said after a moment. But still the silence yawned between them and Tommy could all but feel his brother's judgment. "Not every mission is like this. This one…went bad."

"How many go to plan?"

Tommy did not answer.

"How many people you reckon you lost today?" Joel murmured. "Five at least. Four dead and one bit. And that's assumin' that kid wakes up and the rest of 'em got out. Five dead, maybe more. That a typical day for you?"

Still Tommy did not answer.

Beside him, Joel gave a quiet sigh of frustration, as if rolling his eyes in the darkness. "_You are smart_, Tommy," he continued quietly. "Look around. You ain't winnin'. Fireflies are makin' a lotta racket and not much else."

As Joel spoke, Tommy felt oddly quiet. His brother's tone was not without its usual edge, but it was also tired. Tommy felt as if he ought to be ashamed, rather than angry or defensive.

"God, you two are adorable," Troy abruptly cut in.

"Hah," Joel said dryly, and the silence swept around them again.

The croaking continued out in the mall. Here in the darkness, it was almost peaceful, the distant clicking and moaning, listening to Troy and Joel's slow breathing, wrapped in nighttime shadows. Tommy felt exhaustion slowly registering, seeping into his limbs and making his eyelids heavy. He could sleep, even with the sounds of infected echoing in the cavernous space.

By the store entry, clothing rustled as Troy shifted, then abruptly snorted to himself.

"What?" Tommy murmured, brows drawing together.

A light wheezing rolled through the shop and it took Tommy a moment to realize it was Troy. He was chuckling.

Joel twisted, craning to look around the counter. "Are you laughin'?" he muttered after a second, incredulous.

Troy's black form shifted again. "Just listenin' to those croakers out there…" he said, as if savoring a certain memory. "You remember that kid? Timmy or somethin'? The one Jav always used to rag on. Short guy, lotta freckles."

"Jimmy?" Tommy said before he could stop himself.

"Yeah!" Troy murmured, wheezing again as Tommy and Joel looked on with confused expressions. "I was just thinkin' about that time – ah, where were we? – just outside of Mobile, I think. That old farm house, you 'member? The one with the '47 Harley in the barn?"

Joel glanced at Tommy. "Yeah, I remember."

"You 'member Jimmy and that goddamn shotgun?"

Realization dawned. Without even meaning to, Tommy slowly found himself smiling, a quiet chuckle starting in his chest. Joel sat back against the counter. His face was still obscured by the darkness, but his outline seemed to relax and he shook his head, snorting. Troy continued wheezing and Tommy mimicked his brother, shaking his head.

"God, he musta been sleepin' deep, the way he came up swingin'," Troy whispered.

"Wasn't swingin' he came up doin', if I remember," Tommy whispered back.

"No! No, it weren't. Jesus, I ain't seen nobody pop off a shotgun so damn quick. Kid had balls, I'll give him that."

"No aim, though."

Troy snorted, wiping his eyes. "Thank god for Jav, else he'd of had a face-full of buckshot."

"He shoulda," Joel abruptly cut in.

Tommy's brows drew together. "What?"

Joel shook his head again, tone smirking. "Did it to himself. Snuck up on the kid."

"Huh? It was the door creakin' that freaked Jimmy out."

"Nah, it was Jav," Joel said. "Door was just the excuse Jav came up with. Idiot came back from waterin' a tree, went right up to Jimmy, and started moanin' and growlin' like a goddamn Runner. Standin' right over the kid, grinnin' like an idiot."

"No kiddin'?" Troy suddenly chortled, cupping a hand over his mouth to stifle the noise. He leaned back against the wall behind him. "Judge woulda had his head if he'd ever found out."

Joel craned around the counter again, staring towards Troy's shadow in meaningful silence. "Probably why that part of the story never came up. Jav was an idiot, but he wasn't stupid."

All three chuckled, then slowly subsided into silence again, though Tommy found himself still gently smiling. Somewhere out there in the mall, there were four dead Fireflies. A fifth lay unconscious mere feet away. And here they were, trapped in a derelict pet store, surrounded by the echo of croaking and clicking in the vast bones of one of consumerism's greatest triumphs. Yet Tommy felt a weary sort of fondness. It was rare to see his brother smile, rare to hear Troy laugh, however unlikely the timing.

"The good ol' days, huh?" he quietly muttered, with irony.

Joel snorted.

"Nah, it was," Troy said somberly in the darkness. They did not speak for several minutes, letting the silence wrap around them thick as fog.

Then, Troy abruptly grunted, "You two ever think about where we'd of ended up if Judge hadna died?"

Tommy heard Joel's breathing slow and his absent movements suddenly still, as if he had absolutely heard the question and had no intention of answering it. Even Tommy felt himself grow tense, all mirth gone. They were too far gone from that time. Too far gone to imagine how different their circumstances might be, how different _they_ might be, if things had happened otherwise.

"I do," Troy murmured. His tone was distant. "All the time."

Tommy let out a slow breath. "He was…he was a good man."

"Nah he wasn't," Troy returned. "He robbed people. Only let the strong join…But at least he had a reason for doin' it. Had a plan. Find someplace quiet eventually, set down somewhere where nobody'd bother us." He shifted, rubbing a hand beneath his eyes, scratching at his beard as he absently turned to survey the dark mall beyond the gate. "And he had his lines. Those damn lines he was always harpin' on about."

_There must be limits. Line we won't cross._

"Screwed that one up right well, didn't I?" Troy sighed sharply, as if angry with himself. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees as he ran his fingers through his black hair.

Tommy's lips parted. He felt compelled to say something.

But Joel spoke first. "Wasn't just you, Troy," he said quietly.

He briefly turned towards Tommy, his eyes glimmering in the dim green glow of the snap light on the counter above. Then his gaze dropped to the ground between his legs.

Cloth rustled in the corner of the store.

"Looks like your boy's awake, Tommy," Troy muttered gruffly, sniffing.

Breathing slowly, Tommy stared at his brother, lips still parted as if he had not heard Troy. But eventually he closed his mouth, swallowing before he stiffly came to his feet to check on Joe.

* * *

><p><strong>So yes, I realize it may just have been another few months between updates, despite my optimism last time. All I can say is sorry. I had probably 34 of this chapter written as of a month and a half ago, then things just got away from me with school and crazy busy work. I've had to work some very long hours at work and then had to go over to school on the weekends to boot. That's done now, but taken a bit to catch things up. As always, all I can say is I'm hopeful for a faster turnaround next time and I have NOT lost interest in this story!**

**Anyway, thank you as always for reading and reviewing! On a semi-related note, the name of the mall (which, yes, is the same you see in Left Behind) is Liberty Gardens. If you haven't yet, try googling "liberty gardens boston". So much geek.**

**Finally, a note about the remainder of this story. Were this a paper book, you'd now be at the point where you can physically tell that the remaining pages are dwindling, so I think it only fair to give you a heads up. Mentally prepare you, etc. ;) As of now, I have three remaining chapters planned for Dirt, plus an epilogue. Within the story's timeline, the remaining chapters all take place close to one another, so I plan to roll them out as close to one another as possible, without the long gaps between updates like recently.**

**So...enjoy what remains. :) As always, I appreciate your patience and love that so many of you have invested hours into reading this story of mine. Stay tuned until next time.**


	29. Chapter 29 - No Peacemaker

**For the curious. Go to Google Maps and search for "improv asylum, boston" for the location in which the second scene in this chapter is based. I've never been there - disclaimer, etc, etc. - but it has a handy Google Street View walkabout in the actual location and the look fit with what I was looking for. Enjoy!**

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 29<span>

_March 12, 2024, Early Evening_

She was a little thing, probably four or five. Wrapped in an overlarge green jacket that dusted the snow around her feet, she kicked at the frozen ground and hugged a small backpack close to her as she prowled the fenced area. Every now and then, other kids stopped to say something or poke fun at her, but she would square off with them – short legs dug into the hard-packed snow, chin thrust out – and they would laugh it off and leave her be. But still she would stand there, her expression smug and victorious, little thumbs digging into the straps of her bag.

Someone had tied back her dark red hair into two messy pigtails and she frequently tugged at one of them as if by habit.

Tommy watched from beneath the shadow of a large, bare maple tree, a squat line of brick row houses to his back. Fog had settled around the shoulders of the old school building that adjoined the playground, partially obscuring the rooftop from view, and several sleepy soldiers casually patrolled the low brick wall and half railing that formed the perimeter of the orphanage's outdoor area. The air was bitter cold. It had stopped snowing that morning, but snow lay in thick drifts across the ground and the gray sky above threatened more to come. Tommy turned up his collar and pulled at the sides of his threadbare stocking cap before plunging his hands back into his pockets.

A metal door swung open and a thickset soldier with short hair and a square face stepped out onto the playground. Most of the kids paid the soldier no mind, but Tommy noticed the little red-headed girl look up, her eyes narrowing. It was towards her that the soldier began shuffling, his gait easy and relaxed. As he neared her, he stopped and crouched, waving her towards him. The girl's lips curled into a tiny frown, at once suspicious and hopeful, and she edged towards him. The soldier said something that Tommy could not hear and the little girl rolled her eyes and put her hands on her hips, immediately dropping her cautious shuffle and marching square up to the man, as if he had dared her to be so bold.

When she was near enough, the soldier reached into his jacket and pulled forth a small black object, which he offered her. Tommy could not make out the object from this distance, but he knew what it was. An old Sony Cassette Walkman, headphones wrapped around it. At first the girl glared suspiciously at the object and said something to the soldier, her eyes narrowing. But he only smiled and shrugged, making as if to pocket it again. With a snort loud enough for Tommy to hear, the girl lightly smacked the soldier's arm and snatched the Walkman from his outstretched hand. He chuckled and clapped a gloved hand on her shoulder, then rose and returned towards the door through which he had come.

The girl stood there eyeing the Walkman for a second, slowly unraveling the headphones, but then she swiftly shoved the player and its ungainly cords into her jacket pocket and scuttled away to the far side of the playground, where a frozen dumpster gave her some privacy to inspect her newfound prize.

Tommy smiled.

"Is it done?"

Marlene appeared beside him, a scarf wrapped around her ears and mouth. She moved with her shoulders hunched forward and her voice dragged, tired and cold.

Tommy nodded, eyeing her as she slowly came to lean against the same tree he had positioned himself beside. "Yeah, it's done."

"Good."

Like Tommy, Marlene's eyes drifted to the distant playground, where they came to rest on the little red-headed girl.

"Who is she?" Tommy asked.

At first, Marlene said nothing. Her gaze was distant and distracted, as if she were not truly looking at the girl. But after several seconds, she shook her head. "Just a kid."

"Mmhmm," Tommy grunted. "And you bribe guards to sneak in a Walkman to every random kid in Boston?"

"No." She did not elaborate, nor did her weary tone invite further inquiry.

Tommy changed the subject. "So Bas is set on tonight?"

It was a pinched sigh that now escaped Marlene, a frustrated sound as her lips pressed together and she crossed her arms, turning away from the orphanage. "Yes," she said sharply. "He's determined."

"Damnit. He's movin' too fast, you know that."

"I know."

Tommy shook his head. "We need more time. We got a good quarter to a third of Boston's detail sympathizin' with what we're tryin' to do. If Bas goes through with this, you back every one of those soldiers in a corner. He's gonna force their hand."

"That's what he wants to do, Tommy," Marlene said quietly, the same angry edge in her voice. "Force them to show just how ugly they can be. Shock people into action."

"Jesus Christ."

"But he's wrong on this one. We haven't weakened them enough. We haven't dealt them enough damage for a move like this, but he smells blood."

"And he's goin' for the kill," Tommy replied, angrily shaking his head. "He ain't even givin' us a chance to do it right."

At that, Marlene looked sidelong at Tommy, her expression sharpening. "He's doing it right. He's just doing it too fast."

"Maybe. But I been there, remember? I've seen a zone torn apart by mobs, seen panicked soldiers lay into rioters with machine guns. It ain't the way to go."

"It worked for Pittsburg and Cleveland."

"Uh huh, and where are they now?"

Marlene grew quiet, throwing a knowing glance at Tommy, her brow arching angrily at the corner he had caught her in. "It will be different here. Popular uprisings worked in Pittsburg and Cleveland. Popular governance did not. We will do better."

Tommy wondered if the words sounded as hollow to Marlene as they did to him.

She threw a backward glance at the playground behind her. The little girl was arguing with a boy twice her height, and as they watched, she threw her hands into the boy's stomach to shove him backwards. A hint of a satisfied smile pinched one corner of Marlene's mouth, then she turned and began stalking away.

Lips pressing together, Tommy cast a final glance towards the playground as well before following Marlene without a word.

* * *

><p><em>Night<em>

The air was damp with wet clothing, clinging to the walls of the dark underground assembly room, rising in sweaty drifts from coats still beaded with ice and boots still caked with snow. More than a hundred had gathered, their breath fogging in front of them as they mingled, some of them quiet and nervous, others boisterous and bold.

It reminded Tommy of Baltimore's old fighting pits, a dark space filled with flickering fire light and the hubbub of too many people, smelling of oil lamps and wet wool and sweat. Black paint peeled from the low ceiling and fat wooden pillars, and crushed glass crunched underfoot. This place had once been a comedy club, an underground retreat replete with grungy black floors and disco balls, dozens of light fixtures hanging from the rafters. Now, broken beer bottles littered the corners of the room and the plush folding chairs that had once hosted audiences lay wrenched and abused. At one end of the former club, _The Asylum_ was spray-painted in jagged white letters, above a wicked red smiley face with slanted eyes.

Tommy could feel water creeping down the side of his face as snow melted from the bottom of his stocking cap. At least with this many people, the cold was replaced by a clammy sort of warmth. Eyes scanning the crowd, he gently pushed through the throngs of those gathered, keeping a wary hand on the strap of the rifle he had slung over one shoulder.

"Hey, Tommy," Joe greeted with a yawn. He stood near an open doorway that led into an entry hall and bar, his eyes heavy and expression slow. There was an edge in his voice, the same unease that Tommy felt, but beneath was a deep weariness that manifested in the shadows under the kid's eyes and the cool gray pallor that had settled in his cheeks.

Tommy came to stand beside Joe, jaw tightening. The Boston Fireflies were spread too thin for what Bastille planned for tonight.

"Keepin' sharp, Joe?" Tommy said, crossing his arms.

"You betcha, boss."

Tommy frowned, ignoring the half-truth. "Seen Max?"

"Said he was going to check on Carol's people in the alley."

Nodding, Tommy straightened and gave Joe's shoulder a light squeeze. "Alright. Think I'll have a look too. Eyes open, Joe. Bas should be here any time."

"Got it."

He pushed away from the wall and slipped a thumb under the strap of his rifle, once again diving into the gathering crowd. The faces around him all had the same haggard look – cheeks hollow, eyes sunk, skin pale and brittle. Boston was a hard place at the best of times and this winter had been particularly brutal, bringing with it long snows and deep ration shortages. Every few days, at dawn, military trucks rumbled through the streets, pausing so soldiers could drag stiff bundles of clothes from alleyways and behind dumpsters, anywhere the dead had quietly given into the cold and starvation.

Tommy paused. Amidst the milling crowd, a face caught his eye, familiar but quite out of place.

Tess.

She had a thick woolen cap pulled over her hair, but her long, angular face and sharp expression were unmistakable, even if she looked as gaunt and worn as everyone else. She was scanning the assembly, nose and chin held slightly up as she stared out over the heads of those around her. Then, as she tugged up the collar of the black jacket she wore, her eyes locked on Tommy's.

She smirked.

Jaw suddenly tightening, Tommy pushed through the people in front of him, more roughly than he had intended but without pausing to apologize. Instead, he crossed the room, expression souring as he neared Tess.

"What are you doin' here?" he muttered suspiciously, once he stood before her.

"What," she returned dryly, rolling her eyes. "Can't a girl sign up to suicide without everyone getting all suspicious?"

"Huh?"

"Suicide. Rebel cause. This bullshit. God, never mind." Tess's expression quickly lost its sarcasm as she grew impatient and looked past Tommy, eyes once again scanning the crowd. "Nothing to do with you, Tommy. Be a good boy and run along."

Tommy's lips pressed together and he glared at her, his original question still hanging in the air.

"I'm looking for someone," Tess finally said, her jaw working angrily. "Happy?"

"Who?"

"Rodger."

Tommy blinked in surprise and opened his mouth to respond, but someone suddenly clipped his shoulder from behind and he stumbled forward a step. It was Troy, as usual cutting a swath through the crowd without much heed to whomever he knocked about as he did so.

"Found 'im," the old smuggler growled at Tess, scowling. "Joel's with 'im." It had been nearly four months since Tommy had last seen Troy, in the dark bowels of the mall, but Troy seemed unsurprised and virtually indifferent. He glanced at Tommy, frowned, and muttered, "Hey." Nothing more.

"Finally," Tess snorted, before Tommy could say anything. "Come on then, let's drag his ass out of here."

She began to push past Tommy, but he caught her arm, fully expecting the dangerous glare she suddenly shot him. "What're you doin'?" Tommy said. "What's he here for?"

"He's here because he's a useless old drunk," Tess quietly snapped, "and he's got it in his head that the Fireflies and their miraculous 'light'" – she used air quotes – "are actually going to save this fucking place. _I_ am dragging his ass out of here, like the sentimental idiot I am. Come along if you want. Brother dearest would be crushed if you don't stop and say hi."

She wrenched her arm out of Tommy's grasp and shoved him aside. He felt his temper flare, face growing hot, but Troy reached out and thumped two fingers against Tommy's chest, shaking his head as if to say it was hardly worth heating up over. And it wasn't, Tommy realized, as he bit his tongue. Without a word, Troy stepped out ahead of Tess and began wading through the crowd, cutting a path in which Tess, and eventually Tommy, followed.

They crossed the room, ducking through the door where Joe kept watch and entering the low-ceiled entry area, where a narrow set of black stairs led down from the street above. Throngs of people were milling here as well, pressed up against a former bar with broken beer taps and crowded around a high reception desk. Troy led them to the far side, where two sets of doors, once leading to male and female restrooms, were boarded over with rotting slabs of wood.

They found Rodger and Joel in the corner, where Rodger was seated haphazardly on a short stool missing part of its third leg. Joel towered over him, one hand on the wall, leaning down as if speaking to him.

Yet as Troy and Tess stepped through the crowd and into view, Rodger suddenly looked up and his face twisted, eyes scrunching with the overdramatic anger of someone who has been drinking.

"Aw Jesus Christ," Rodger muttered. "Can't you people just fuck off for _once_?"

Tommy could not remember the last time he had seen Rodger. Had it been years? Whenever it was, the one-time janitor was much changed since then. His hairline had receded and what hair remained had gone a greasy gray, as had the stubble that replaced the goatee Rodger had once sported. His eyes had once been sharp and mocking, but now they were watery and shot through with red, sunk deep into a face that had gone hollow and gray with age, alcohol, and grief.

Joel looked up. His demeanor changed as he caught sight of Tommy, instantly tensing.

"Hey," Tommy said, nodding at Joel despite his brother's guarded expression. He wanted to speak to Joel, though this was hardly the time.

"Tommy," Joel greeted in return, also nodding.

"Leave me the fuck alone, Tess," Rodger interrupted, ignoring the rest of them as he glared balefully up at Tess. "Said you didn't give a damn if I drank myself to death. Why go all fuckin' mother hen on me now?" His words slurred slightly as he spoke.

"Get up," Tess said without replying. "You're leaving."

"Told Joel the same thing, girl. _Fuck off_."

Angry impatience flashed across Tess's face and she leaned forward to grab a handful of Rodger's threadbare sweater, hauling him unsteadily to his feet. "And I said get the hell up, so _get the hell up_."

"Go fuck yourself."

He made an ungainly kick towards Tess's shin in an attempt to propel himself away from her, but Troy reached out and clapped a hand around his shoulder, forcing Rodger to twist awkwardly away and slam his side into the wall behind him. Tess was on him in a second, again grabbing a handful of Rodger's sweater with one hand and reaching to hook her other under one of his arms. Tommy leapt forward, seizing her wrist before she could get both hands on Rodger, but even as he did so, he felt Joel's arm wrap around his neck and chest, pulling him back away from the fray.

"Joel, stop!" Tommy growled, releasing Tess and grabbing at his brother's arm instead. "What the hell do you care anyway? Let him be!"

"Leave off it, Tommy!" Joel grunted sharply. "This ain't your business."

Rodger had started yelling, thrashing about as Tess and Troy tried to back him into the corner and lay hands on him. "I gotta right to be here! Stop it! Lemme be!"

Suddenly Tess gasped and jumped back and Troy's hands instantly went into the air. Rodger had been backed into the corner and stood with one leg awkwardly posed against the stool he had been sitting on, which had spilled on its side. He held a pistol in one hand, the barrel pointed at Tess's gut.

"For God's sake, Rodger," Tess said impatiently, her surprise quickly giving way to anger. "Put the fucking gun away. You don't belong here."

Troy grunted. "You reek of booze, Rodg. You ain't shootin nobody. And you ain't thinkin' right, else you'd be sleepin' this off somewhere."

Even with the milling crowd and the hum of conversation, their little scuffle in the corner had drawn attention. Those nearest them were gazing warily at Rodger, shuffling slowly backwards.

"I said to leave me the hell alone," Rodger growled, steadying himself with a hand against the wall. "I ain't sayin' it again."

"Put it up, Rodger," Joel muttered, hands also spread wide. "You're already makin' yourself an idiot for bein' here."

Tommy felt a hand on his shoulder.

He turned, heart dropping, as Bastille stepped up beside him, surveying the standoff between Rodger and Tess. The old man looked as he ever did – a carefully cultivated image, Tommy had come to realize – square white beard, greasy ball cap, old vest, checkered shirt. Everything about him suggested he was a tough old bastard, save for the rusty forearm crutch that jittered as he moved. He was watching Tess with thin lips, the teardrop wrinkles beneath his eyes pinching angrily as he scowled.

The Firefly leader's sudden presence seemed to freeze the scene before them. Rodger abruptly began blinking, mouth falling open. Tess's eyes darted towards Bastille and the impatience in her expression gave way to defiance. Both Troy and Joel glanced at each other, then towards the exit, hands still held aloft.

"I see your opinion of our organization remains unchanged," Bastille rumbled, glaring at Joel. As usual, his voice grated, low and unrelenting.

Joel looked surprised that the old man remembered him, but in next moment, he clamped his mouth shut and clenched his jaw. "Why should it be?" he muttered, nodding at Tommy. "You've nearly got him killed enough times."

"Your brother's survival is not my purpose," Bastille replied coldly. "Retaking my city is my purpose. Your brother survives because he has the wherewithal to do so, but his purpose is the same as mine. His priorities are the same as mine."

"Fancy words, old man," Tess suddenly said, expression darkening.

He turned to face her. The crowd had grown very quiet now, due no doubt to Bastille's presence, but also due in no small part to the half dozen armed Fireflies who trailed him. Tommy could see Marlene slowly pushing her way forward from the rear.

Bastille's eyes narrowed. "Only to those who don't look past tomorrow, smuggler. Yes, I know who you are. I know everyone I do business with." He thrust his chin in Rodger's direction. "You want to continue this little spat of yours? Fine. I'm no peacemaker. But you'll get the hell out of here first. And if your friend wishes to stay, he stays."

Tess looked furious. Not uncontrolled, for she was rarely uncontrolled, but Tommy recognized the fury in the tight set of her jaw and the thin pinch of her brow. Slowly, he stepped closer to Bastille, squaring his shoulder against the old man's, and behind him, he heard rustling cloth as the other Fireflies did the same.

No one else moved, not even Tess, who was hardly the sort to back down in the face of such a challenge. Rodger continued standing with his back to the corner, gun in hand, and Troy looked as pissed off as ever. Unexpectedly, it was Joel who broke the tension.

"Ain't worth this, Tess. Rodger wants to get himself killed, let him."

Tommy glanced at his brother. As usual, Joel's emotions were plain to see. He was not afraid – indeed, his lip almost curled, as if quite ready to take on what he viewed, no doubt, as a group of amateur rebels – but his eyes were narrowed and watchful, disinclined to attract this sort of attention.

"C'mon, Tess," Tommy muttered.

The angular lines of her face had been thrown into stark profile by the anger in her expression, but those lines slowly diminished and the tension across her brow faded as fury was traded for disdain, and scowl was traded for smirk.

She glanced at Rodger. Whatever ulterior motives she may have had coming here to drag Rodger out – and Tommy did not doubt she had them – he also suspected that there was some part of her that genuinely did not want an old acquaintance taking up with such a crowd. She had always harbored a harsh sort of loyalty to those she worked with, even to Tommy, before he had left. But no matter. Tess had never allowed sentiment to cloud her judgment.

She snorted. "Have it your way, old man."

That seemed to settle the matter for Bastille. He gave a sharp nod and brushed past Tess without another word, his crutch jittering in its metal socket as the tension in the room instantly dissipated. Onlookers who had been staring quickly turned their backs to the group, all too anxious to pretend none of the unpleasantry had happened. Tommy remained where he was, but he acknowledged Marlene with a nod as she passed him, following Bastille but shooting a meaningful glance at Tess and Troy and Joel.

"This was stupid," Joel muttered, once the last of the Fireflies had filed past them into the adjoining assembly room.

Rodger grimaced. "Yeah, it was," he replied, still glowering at them as he relaxed and shoved his gun into his rear waistband.

"Shut up." Troy had remained largely silent through the exchange with Bastille, but the look he now sent his former comrade silenced Rodger in an instant. Then, when Joel shook his head and stepped towards the stairway leading to the street above, Troy caught his arm. "Hey," he said, leaning in. "What about Rodg?"

Joel glanced back. "What about him? He wants to stay, Troy. Waste your time on him if you want. I got better things to do."

For once Troy's ordinarily apathetic expression became animated. His brows drew together and he swiveled to look at Tess, lips parting.

"No," Tess muttered, irritation still plain. "Joel's right. I said we'd try and we did. Idiot doesn't want to come and I don't intend to stay."

"You're gonna have to now," Tommy said quietly, abruptly drawing their attention. He had not moved once the other Fireflies were past, but the four smugglers had seemed to forget he was there.

Tess's expression twitched. "What do you mean?"

"No one comes or goes once Bas arrives. For security."

Joel snorted, suddenly crossing his arms. "This a joke?"

"No."

Tommy did not bother to make his tone angry or defiant. Whether Joel and the others liked it or not did not really matter. They would back down for the same reason Tess had backed down from Bastille, because they knew it was an argument they would not win. Fireflies would firearms stood at every doorway.

Unlike Tess, Joel did not press the point. He gave a disgusted shake of his head and turned away, waving Tess and Troy back towards the wall.

"Stow it," Tommy said, as all three began to mutter. "Bas won't speak for long. Just sit down for a few goddamn minutes."

The room began to quiet. Breath still rising to the ceiling in damp tendrils, people started to shuffle out of the entry area where Tommy stood and into the adjoining room, where _The Asylum_ had once hosted improve shows. Tommy followed the crowd, leaving Joel and the rest of them and positioning himself instead next to one of the two doorways into the main assembly room, where he could survey all those gathered. The comedy club's main stage had once been at the center of the room, with rows of chairs rising on all four sides of it, but now all attention was focused on one end of the low-ceiled space, where Bastille and a squad of Fireflies had gathered. Tommy glimpsed Marlene at the other end of the room, standing beside a metal door that led into the alley beyond.

Someone had hung several battery-powered lanterns from the ceiling near where Bastille stood, bathing that end of the room in a pale white light that seemed strangely at odds with the flickering, oily yellow light thrown off by the candles and kerosene lamps that dotted the rest of the space. Bastille was speaking with several Fireflies nearest him, but as Tommy watched, the old man nodded and turned, suddenly lifting a hand.

Instantly, the room hushed.

"Hello."

As usual, Bastille's tone was clipped and terse, his voice a growling rumble, but when he lifted it, he seemed to fill the entire room. "Thank you for coming tonight. I'll keep this short. I know you all are taking a risk coming here."

He stood tall and straight, despite leaning on his crutch. Yet there was something in his expression, in the way that the teardrop wrinkles beneath his eyes pinched together, that suggested both impatience and excitement. It was not nerves; Bastille had no difficulty speaking his mind. But he rarely left the tunnels beneath Boston anymore. Tommy guessed it had been some time since the Firefly leader had had to reel in his natural impatience and actually sit down and speak with a group of strangers.

Bastille continued. "I know that every one of you are here because you've lost someone. I'm not talking about the infection. You've lost someone to the military. To our oppressors, who think that their walls and their guns and their fancy blue uniforms give them the right to treat the rest of us like less than animals." He paused.

"It does not."

The crowd was nodding in that way that a group of people will, when they have come to have their beliefs confirmed. Collective affirmation. Easy nods and muttering that gained in volume as others joined in.

Tommy felt someone beside him and turned, brows abruptly drawing together as a nearby kerosene lamp flickered across Joel's face.

"Most of you know me as Bastille," Bastille was saying, on the other side of the room. "Many of you—"

"You know half the people in this room are armed," Joel suddenly muttered, eyes locked on Bastille, but leaning to the side so that only Tommy could hear.

Tommy crossed his arms, looking away from his brother. "Half the people in this room are Fireflies.

"Rodger isn't."

"No," Tommy agreed. He pinched back a sigh. "Most folks here have already lost everything. Ain't takin' one more thing from 'em."

"Seems a risk for your man there."

"It is. It was his decision."

Joel glanced sidelong at Tommy, then gave a silent snort. "Figures."

Bastille was speaking now about hope and the future, describing a quarantine zone where people would not always live in fear of tomorrow. They were old words, oft heard in the radio broadcasts that the Fireflies regularly transmitted to anyone willing to risk listening. It was Marlene's voice, however, that usually spoke with the passion and fire that listeners were familiar with. Even to Tommy, Bastille's impatient tone sounded boilerplate, like the necessary and overused prelude to something more important.

"What's this for anyway?" Joel muttered, again only loud enough for Tommy to hear. "Must be somethin' important if you got the big man out of his cave."

Tommy shook his head. "Gotta lay into everything, huh?" he said. Joel only shrugged and Tommy looked back towards Bastille. "It's…the next step. Fireflies have been makin' gains the last few months."

"So we hear."

"Yeah well. We ain't just attackin' patrols forever."

"Mmhmm."

They lapsed into silence again and, as Tommy returned his attention to Bastille, he was grateful to see that the Firefly leader's demeanor had changed. His face had become more enlivened, his movements more defiant. He was launching into the real reason for being here.

"The Feds are scared," he was growling at the crowd. "They're all but running. But…" His expression darkened. "They are _not_ running. And that's because of you."

He stabbed a finger at the room, then spread his hands. "Despite _every_ advantage that the Fireflies have pressed in Boston, the military remains unshakeable in one thing: its belief that the population of our city _will not rise up_. Food riots are temporary, riots over a dead child are temporary – fueled by anger, not by hope. And while the military continues to believe that Boston has abandoned hope, while its unshakeable belief in the apathy of this zone remains unchallenged, then every victory that the Fireflies claim will be _meaningless_."

The room was growing more animated, soaking in Bastille's building fervor as their muttering turned to whoops and hollers of agreement. Fists pounded the air.

Tommy glanced back at his brother. Joel was watching Bastille, but his expression was unreadable. The oily yellow lamplight that flickered across Joel's face revealed nothing new, only the usual mix of apathy and wariness. He shifted and looked back to Tommy, as if having sensed he was being watched.

"What?" he grunted.

Tommy frowned, lips pressing together. "Can you stick around after? When Bas is finished? I got somethin' I wanna talk about."

"What about?"

"Just…somethin' I don't wanna say here."

Joel's eyes narrowed and he mirrored Tommy's frown. But after a second, he gave a small nod. "I'll be here."

Tommy's chest tightened at the uncomfortable thought of what he wished to speak to Joel about, but he only nodded in return and fixed his focus forward again.

The crowd had begun to grow loud and Bastille was now having to lift his voice to be heard. "Now is the time," he was saying, stomping his crutch on the stage beneath him. "Every one of you has a responsibility. I don't need you to join the Fireflies. I need you in the streets. I need your friends in the streets. I need your family in the streets. I need every mother, father, child. Every rabble-rouser and homebody and brawler and drunk. Everyone. They cannot kill us all. They cannot—"

Gunshots tore through the room.

So abrupt and unexpected was the noise that the crowd hardly moved at first, many still punching the air as if worked into enough of a frenzy that they somehow stupidly believed the brief burst of semi-automatic gunfire was purely celebratory.

Then the screaming began.

Suddenly the entire room was in motion. Black and gray coats heaving like rats fleeing fire. Tommy and Joel were thrust back against the doorway in which they stood as panicked onlookers began shoving and running back into the entry-area in an effort to reach the main stairway leading to the street above.

Tommy did not bother swinging his rifle off his shoulder – it would be a hindrance in such close quarters – and instead pulled a heavy black pistol from an inside pocket of his coat. As the crowd pushed and churned against them, the two brothers allowed themselves to be carried just past the doorway, where the swing of the door itself afforded them a tiny alcove to avoid the stampede.

"Uzis!" Tommy shouted to Joel, though he could barely hear himself above the roar of people. Tommy's head had snapped to the back of the room as soon as the first gunshots had filled the tight space, and he had glimpsed muzzle flashes, shorter and fatter than an assault rifle would have produced. The sound was different too – more tinny, high-pitched, less the throaty roar of M-16s. Small submachine gun then, easily concealable.

Joel nodded. "C'mon!"

He began to push Tommy ahead of him, but Tommy held up an arm. "You go!" he yelled back. "I gotta stay and help—"

Without warning, more gunfire belted through the old comedy club. But it was different this time, deeper and meaner, and coming from the wrong direction – from the stairway exit towards which people were streaming.

The screaming redoubled.

"They're on the stairs!"

"Get off! Turn around, for fuck's sake!"

"They're comin' in! They're comin' in!"

It was pandemonium. Half the crowd was surging towards the exit, the other half was desperately trying to flee it. Candles were being knocked from brackets and snuffed underfoot. An oil lamp smashed to the ground, flames suddenly licking up a woman's leg as the people around her scattered. And down the stairs thundered blue uniforms in full body armor, flashlights strapped to the barrels of their black assault rifles.

"Go, go, go!" Joel suddenly cried, as the unmistakable sound of bullets striking flesh began to thump around them.

The two of them ducked back through the open doorway into the assembly room again, half shoving their way through the teaming ranks of people, half carried along by the crowd itself. Somewhere along the way, Tommy had fished out his flashlight, which he held now alongside the barrel of his pistol. A space before them abruptly opened and Tommy's flashlight landed on a man in a long coat and cap, fingerless gloves wrapped around the handle of a small black Uzi.

Before the man could even lift the submachine gun, Tommy opened fire, striking the man in the fleshy part of his left leg. A second later, Joel too squeezed off a shot, opening a bloody hole just above the collar of the man's long coat. Whoever he was, he flopped backwards, dead before he struck the floor.

"Joel!"

Still buffeted by the crowd, Joel and Tommy both swiveled towards a voice that sounded small and distant, but when they turned, they found Tess standing practically beside them. She was bleeding from a busted lip.

"Where's Troy?" Joel shouted at her.

"Took off after Rodger! Asshole was shooting at the Feds coming down the stairs last I saw!"

"Jesus Christ," Tommy muttered to himself. He had only half been paying attention to what Tess was saying. His eyes were trained on the second exit from _The Asylum_, a battered metal door leading up to an alley behind the building. He could hear almost nothing, the sound of gunfire from all quarters having deafened him to any real ability to distinguish direction. But those nearest the alley door were pushing back from it, fighting against the churn of people thrusting them forward. Tommy caught glimpses of the scene beyond the door – Fireflies with rifles and pistols raised, muzzle flashes lighting their faces.

The military was attacking both access points to the underground comedy club, trapping those within.

"Follow me!" Tommy suddenly yelled at Joel and Tess. "There's a third exit through the kitchen! It's hidden, just supposed to be for gettin' Bastille out!"

To their credit, neither Joel nor Tess made any snide comments about how they would not even be here had Tommy not forced them to stay. They only nodded their assent, each checking the pistols they carried.

Tommy plunged forward, elbowing people aside, mentally cycling through a thousand thoughts at once. The front entrance was compromised, troops already down the stairs and opening fire without discrimination, if the roar of gunfire from other room was any indication. The Fireflies in the alley, however, were still clearly putting up a fight. That exit potentially remained feasible, still held by Marlene and the others who had been assigned to watch it. But if Bastille and his honor guard had already fled, then the third exit should already be open; the crowd should naturally have poured after them in a desperate attempt to escape. But it wasn't.

Bastille.

The Firefly leader had not been Tommy's responsibility. Foxtrot Squad had been assigned crowd control. It had been Bravo Squad up on the stage around Bastille, armed and angry looking. Bravo's responsibility to get Bastille out.

Tommy's heart sank as he reached the area where Bastille had been standing, beyond which were the double swinging doors that led to the former club's kitchen. Bodies sprawled across the black floor. Faces Tommy recognized from Bravo, blood soaking their chests and pooling on the ground. Several were moving, groaning as they tried to pull themselves over their comrades, coughing through lips splattered scarlet red. Whoever the men with the Uzis were – and Tommy suspected there had been more than the one – they had done their bloody work fast and well.

"_C'mon_, Tommy!" Joel yelled, grabbing Tommy's arm after he had ground to a halt by the bodies of his fellow Fireflies.

"Hold on!" Tommy threw off Joel's hand and leapt over the body of a dead Firefly, flashlight sweeping across the stage. The gunfire in the adjoining entry room was growing louder, closer, and Tommy glanced back to see both Joel and Tess with pistols held aloft, warily watching the doorways.

"Bas!" Tommy crouched beside a body he recognized as Becky Mullins, leader of Bravo Squad, and rolled her on her side, revealing the row of bloody exit wounds that had blown out her back. Beneath her, Bastille's eyes flickered open and he groaned. His white beard was stained a wet red and Becky's life had bled out all across his front. A quick glance over the old man and Tommy could see two actual gunshots, one just beneath Bastille's left shoulder and the other above his right knee.

"To…Tommy…" Bastille groaned, bloody fingers reaching upward.

"Joel!" Tommy suddenly shouted. "Joel! Help me!"

A second flashlight beam swiveled towards them and a moment later Joel was crouched over Tommy, but his expression was angry. "Are you goddamn serious? He's dead, Tommy. Now c'mon!"

"No! Fuckin' help me, Joel!" Tommy glared up at his brother. "He's alive! The Feds fuckin' find him and they'll know what a goddamn blow they've made. They _can't_ find him, Joel. Please!"

Before Joel could answer, however, Tess opened fire behind them. There were uniforms in the doorway, flashlights sweeping the dark assembly room. Instantly, both Joel and Tommy lifted their own pistols, Joel rising to his feet while Tommy aimed with one hand from where he still crouched on the ground beside Bastille.

Tess dropped one of the soldiers to the ground with a shot that blew out the soldier's knee, where the body armor did not reach. Joel and Tommy peppered the second uniform with half a dozen quick shots that shattered the soldier's face mask. Two more remained, but they both suddenly stumbled forward, their heads jerking as if they had been struck from behind.

Rodger and Troy appeared at their backs. At such close quarters, and with the soldiers' movements hampered by their bulky armor and the fact that they had their backs to their assailants, Rodger and Troy made quick work of the two remaining uniforms. Rodger shoved a pistol into the side of one of them, just beneath the arm where the plates of body armor did not meet, and squeezed off several rounds. Troy kicked at the back of the others' knees, toppling the unfortunate soldier forward, where Troy grabbed the man's face mask, rammed the long barrel of his handgun under the base of the man's skull, and pulled the trigger.

"I should be a fuckin' Firefly," Troy grumbled loudly, tossing the soldier to the ground. "Do a better goddamn job than you people."

Tommy ignored them. He leapt to his feet and jumped over Bastille, grabbing the collar of the Firefly leader's flannel shirt and hauling backwards to pull him free of the pile of bodies.

"Joel!" he grunted as he pulled. "Please!"

Shaking his head, Joel cursed and stepped over bodies, reaching down to help take hold of Bastille's prostrate form.

"Jesus, Joel—" Tess started to say, but he cut her off with a snap.

"Shut up! Cover us, for god's sake."

Like the fluid crew they had once been, all arguments abated and the five of them moved with speed. Tess and Troy and Rodger all leveled guns at the open doorway, while Tommy and Joel heaved Bastille by his collar, dragging him across the bodies of the fallen. The group edged towards the kitchen doors as quickly as Tommy and Joel could move, boots sliding on a floor slick with blood.

"Here they come!" Tess suddenly bellowed as more beams of light began stabbing through the open doorway from the entry room.

Rodger turned and shoved Troy without warning, pushing the big man towards the kitchen. "Go!" he yelled, voice surprisingly clear despite the amount he had no doubt had to drink. "I'll cover you!"

For the second time that night, Troy's usually apathetic expression twisted with alarm and he opened his mouth to argue. Rodger aimed his pistol squarely at the ground just in front of Troy's feet and pulled the trigger. A chunk of black wooden floorboard flew into the air.

"Get goin'!"

"Jesus, you crazy fuckin' bastard," Troy growled. But he did not argue, instead grabbing Tess's arm and pushing her in front of him. Tommy and Joel quickly followed, dragging Bastille behind them.

Glass shattered in the window of one of the swinging doors to the kitchen just as Tess pushed it open, and Tommy felt more bullets slamming into the walls and floor around him as the soldiers Tess had warned them about opened fire. He thought he heard Rodger return fire just as the kitchen doors whooshed closed behind them.

The kitchen was small, but felt oddly hushed once the doors swung shut, though they could still clearly hear the screams and gunfire out in the audience room and entry area. Two rows of work benches greeted them, a tiny space just large enough to prepare appetizers and finger-food for the comedy club's long ago customers. At the far end of the kitchen, a tall wine cooler stood against the wall, its glass front long since smashed open and robbed of its contents.

"There!" Tommy said, pointing. "Behind that cooler. The wall's blown out behind it."

Tess and Troy jogged towards it as Tommy and Joel hobbled after them, a wet trail of blood smearing across the kitchen tiles from Bastille's wounds. At the cooler, Troy threw his shoulder against the side of the dusty unit, shoving it sideways into one corner and revealing a gaping hole of brick and mortar and insulation.

They dove through the opening. Beyond, old cardboard boxes and white containers littered a gray basement. Dozens of plastic blister packs, emptied of their pills, were strewn across the floor, as if the place had once been a pharmacy.

"Stairs to the alley on the other side," Tommy grunted, sweating despite the cold. "It's a different alley than the one _The Asylum_ leads out to."

"Place is going to be crawling with Feds," Tess muttered as they made their way quickly through the basement.

Joel huffed, beginning to sweat as much as Tommy. "Tunnel 4 is a block away. We get there, we can at least huddle up somewhere outside the wall for the night."

Tess nodded.

The stairs leading up out of the basement were metal and scattered with snow. The door at the top of them had long ago been left open and it whined now on angry hinges in the wind. It was snowing again, blowing in through the open door with light gusts that sent it swirling to the basement below. Above them, they could see the night sky, gray and overcast and cold.

Tess and Troy continued to lead the way, mounting the stairs and taking them two at a time. Once at the top, Tess remained by the door while Troy disappeared outside. At the bottom of the stairs, Joel and Tommy puffed and cursed, their breath fogging thick in front of them as they pulled Bastille's prostrate form up step by step.

"Hang in there, Bas," Tommy grunted, fingers growing icy cold as he gripped the metal railing leading up.

Just as they reached the top, Troy stuck his head back through the doorway. "We got a problem," he muttered.

They emerged into the alleyway. It was white from top to bottom, snow untouched save where Troy had walked. Three sides of the alley were the walls of adjoining buildings, but the fourth, which should have been open, was blocked by a collapsed fire escape. It had a lighter dusting of snow over it, as if it had only recently peeled away from the building above, surrendering to the weight of Boston's most recent snow storm.

"We'll scale it," Tommy huffed, briefly letting go of Bastille's collar and straightening to catch his breath. "C'mon, we can—"

"Tommy—" Joel began to interrupt.

"No, look. We can do it. I can do it, if you'll just fuckin' help. We'll lift Bas up and over that railing there, hand him down to Troy on the other side—"

"Tommy—"

"For Christ's sake, Joel—"

"Tommy!"

Tommy stopped. His brother was not looking at him, but at Bastille. Tommy's eyes snapped back to the Firefly leader and, in an instant, the breath went out of him.

Two new bloody holes had been opened across the old man's chest, likely as their group had fled towards the kitchen. Bastille's shirt and vest were soaked and dark, rapidly being covered with a thin veneer of snow. The teardrop wrinkles beneath his closed eyes looked as brittle as parchment, in a face now pale and quickly growing cold.

"Jesus," Tommy breathed, weakly pulling his stocking cap off his head. He felt as if the last of his strength had been sapped, just in time for someone to punch him in the gut.

A brick wall rose up behind him, though he could not recall having stumbled backwards. One hand pressed against the brickwork, ignoring the cold clay, resisting the urge to slide to his knees.

Instead, his shock gave way. He found himself blinking, frowning, then felt his cheeks grow warm despite the cold. A hot flush crept up his spine and into his neck and he suddenly clenched his teeth and lunged forward, driving a boot into Bastille's side.

"Goddamnit, old man! What was the fuckin' point!"

Joel jerked him back before he could kick Bastille's body a second time. "Stop," Joel rumbled, grabbing Tommy by the shoulders. "Tommy, stop. Listen. We gotta move."

Focusing, Tommy forced himself to swallow his anger and the inexplicable sense of betrayal he felt. He could hear voices, sharp and barking, from the doorway down into the basement they had left behind.

"We gotta move," Joel repeated. "They're followin' us. We gotta go."

"I can't leave the body," Tommy muttered half-heartedly, though he clenched his teeth as if resigning himself.

Without hesitating, Joel pulled back the edge of his coat and fished out a lighter from one of the inside pockets. Tommy recognized it, despite a multitude of scratches having long since cleaned it of all but a few patches of army green paint. It was a relic of their days among the ranks of Baltimore's gravediggers, now once again to be put to its original, gruesome purpose.

Joel flipped the lighter open and snapped it several times before a small flame burst to life. Moving quickly, he knelt beside Bastille and held the flame to the collar of the old man's vest, to the edge of his pants, to the bottom of his bloody beard. With the biting wind licking through the alley, the flames caught quickly and began to spread despite the snow, filling the air with a sickly, waxy stench.

The voices in the basement grew louder. Tess and Troy were already scrambling up over the collapsed fire escape. Tommy helped his brother back to his feet and gave Joel a single grateful nod before the two of them began climbing the twisted metal wreckage.

Below them, the body of the Fireflies' last founding member crackled and burned, melting the snow around it.

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks for reading and reviewing! As I said, I hope to get the next few (last) chapters out hopefully within a few weeks of one another, since they occur back-to-back. Can't promise, but I took a good long while planning all the remaining chapters out before writing this one, so my hope is to be able to move relatively quickly now.<strong>

**Up next time. Tommy, Joel, Tess and Troy are forced to temporarily flee the zone to evade their pursuers. Stay tuned!**


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